


Clawesome, Fangtastic, absolutely Smoking

by Ki_ru



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Magic, Anal Sex, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Happy Ending, Humor, Light Angst, Light-Hearted, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mage!Mute, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Mild Gore, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, light body horror, not in that order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23560669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/pseuds/Ki_ru
Summary: Mute, a Royal Warlock fresh from the academy, gets assigned a simple task: kill a dragon. He doesn't really want to, as he believes magical creatures deserve respect instead of death, but orders are orders. And his explicitly state to sympathise with the beast, befriend some deities, make a few groundbreaking discoveries and upend the status quo entirely. That's what it said, right?...right?
Relationships: Mark "Mute" Chandar/James "Smoke" Porter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 117





	1. Time for Mute to bother this animal (or How Not To Train Your Dragon)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much to the person who prompted this, I enjoyed writing this piece immensely 💝  
> As for the dragon, I'm picturing something [similar to this](https://i.imgur.com/QfQVXPl.jpg) (by [Guillaume Menuel](https://www.artstation.com/grizz)).

Akenfield’s only inn is situated right at the edge of the small gathering of houses, where the narrow road connecting the nearby villages comes to an end. When approaching the town, the tavern is only the second thing weary travellers notice: the first is the long mountain range weaving its way through the picturesque countryside – with Akenfield cosying up to the steep incline.

The guest-house’s stately, solid appearance can be ascribed to the old-fashioned architecture of intricately carved columns and the elegantly curved roof gently sloping down over the sun-flooded terrace. Amid the simple buildings making up the rest of the town, it stands out crassly and must’ve been used as a shrine or traditional gathering place by various now died-out communities before taking on the role of providing drinks to the townsfolk as well as welcoming the rare stranger.

A stranger just like Mute. The inn is his ultimate destination, the final stop on a long journey from the capital out here into the farthest reaches of the kingdom.

He stops his horse right next to the lone man sitting on the porch almost as if he’d been expecting Mute, attentive eyes following his every move. He’s dressed simply and sports a wild shock of dark hair as well as a slight smile playing on his lips.

“I understand you have a dragon problem”, Mute opens up a conversation he hopes won’t take too long. The dark garments he wears, adorned with the King’s sigil, have earned him enough suspicion on his travels that he’s tired of having to repeat or justify himself – some people even silently walked away in response to any inquiries. Superstition rules over the countryside with an iron fist and a long-held belief states that those dabbling in magic bring misfortune, even though it’s usually the other way round. Tragedy requires the intervention of mages.

“Not me personally”, comes the quick reply, “but plenty of others round here. You’re the new wizard, right? The reinforcement?”

Mute sighs inwardly. This is the part of any social interaction he always dreads the most, which is saying something – he doesn’t enjoy talking in general. “Hi, I’m Mute, and I’m a sorcerer.” He indicates the proud chestnut between his legs. “And this is my horse, Horcerer.”

A beat. Then comes the inevitable amusement. “Are you bloody serious?”

“I got her from a Seelie”, Mute explains for the hundredth time, “and part of the agreement was that the fairy could choose how I introduce myself whenever my horse is around.” He braces himself for the next part, praying to whichever deity is currently listening that he’ll be released from this unending torment soon so he can have something other to eat than cured meat and dried fruits, and maybe even sleep in a proper bed.

“Oh. You’ve talked to a Seelie?”

Yes, he has. He’s communicated with his fair share of Seelies (though he often regretted it as most of them turned out to be utter blabbermouths), spoken to nymphs, conversed with leprechauns and argued with a ghoul (the worst temporary roommate he’s ever had, not just because of the smell) – and if he’s honest, they’re all just as draining as most humans. In his eyes, most magical creatures are neither pests nor cursed nor inferior creatures, yet unfortunately next to the entire kingdom would disagree with him. Which is why he doesn’t parade his opinion around.

In the case of Horcerer however, he has the choice between sounding like a lunatic or admitting an interaction with a benign fairy, and his pride won’t let him leave it at the former.

“I have”, he answers curtly, not willing to elaborate. He’s made the mistake of adding _they’re just people after all_ a few times and nearly started a fist fight with that statement. “Can I leave her to you? I’m dying for something warm to eat.”

“Of course, go on ahead. And good luck with the dragon slaying.” The man winks at him in a way that conveys his doubts about Mute’s success – a sentiment he shares. It’s not been a year since he’s left the academy and he didn’t expect his first official assignment to clash with his personal beliefs, but he’s got orders to follow.

And a dragon to slay.

  


As soon as he enters the taproom, all eyes are on him. This, too, is something he hasn’t gotten used to yet: as someone who grew up in cities, he’s adept at blending into crowds, disappearing from view, hiding behind anonymity to avoid interactions. Impossible in the country, where everyone knows everyone.

He sincerely hopes no one asks for his name while he’s still centre of attention.

Many of the available tables are occupied at this late hour, tankards populating the desktops smooth from decade-long usage and unfamiliar faces arranged in familiar groups – there’s always some feud going on, wives sticking together and old guys gossiping. They’re not the ones catching his attention though, unlike the figure sat by the bar and clad in similar robes to Mute’s own: at just a few shades lighter, the woman’s clothes are of a dark grey and presumably just as adept at warding off strangers. She’s currently shovelling what looks like stew into her mouth and disregarding the fact that the volume dropped to a whisper over Mute’s appearance. She only looks up once Mute has taken the seat right next to her and nods as a greeting. Refreshing. He’s always glad to meet his kind – the less chatty type.

“Welcome to the end of the world”, she addresses him matter-of-factly. “May you be crowned with success where I’ve been struggling for weeks now.”

Mute takes a moment to size her up, from the unusually short auburn hair over the scar on her face to her blurry right hand – the magical prosthesis needs a refresher with how out of focus it is, but otherwise it looks remarkably well done. If not for its wobbly outline, it’d be indistinguishable from the real thing. She’s older than him, though not by too much, and it’s unusual for someone her age to already have lost a limb to imprecision. The scar on the other hand is a familiar sight, he’s seen worse on younger mages.

Apart from everything that screams Royal Sorceress about her, he notices quite a few singe marks on her robes and quiet frustration in her features. It can’t be pleasant to fail and be replaced by someone deemed a better fit for the job.

“I don’t expect to have an easier time. The King mostly just wants a second opinion on how to proceed, I suppose.” It’s not a lie, though his orders did include _kill if possible_. Should the magical creature prove too cunning or powerful for Mute, he’s meant to send a message back and assemble a team to rid the countryside of the inconvenient forest dweller.

Around them, the locals have returned to their conversations, with most of them only occasionally glancing over at the two royal servants. They’ve had time to get used to one of them, so another doesn’t seem to stir up the grapevine as much.

“Fair enough. I’m Finka, good to meet you.”

Oh no. He was hoping they could skip this part. “Hi, I’m Mute and I’m a sorcerer, and outside is my horse, Horcerer”, his mouth produces once more.

Finka blinks at him, visibly caught off-guard.

“I got her from a Seelie and now I’m forced to introduce myself like this. Anyway -”

Her eyes narrow. “You made a deal with a fairy?”

“Just fill me in, I don’t wanna talk about it.” He’s close to adding _she’s a REALLY good horse though_ , but justifying himself has long become tiring.

“Alright.” Now she’s the one giving him a once-over. He knows what she sees: someone much too young to wear these black clothes, no visible injuries, scars or missing body parts, and the awkward posture of someone more at ease in the company of tomes and scrolls rather than people. In short: a prodigy among the magical users. And that term often carries no positive connotation.

Even so, Finka remains neutral. “This conduit was discovered half a year ago by a travelling jester who dabbles in illusion to spice up his performances. He noticed his spells being unnaturally powerful in this area and promptly reported it to the King, who sent out a surveyor – you know, the usual procedure. Said surveyor, uh, made unexpected acquaintance with the dragon living on the other side of the mountains.”

Mute scrunches up his face in sympathy – most chance meetings between a powerful creature and an unprepared mage don’t go well –, but Finka shakes her head.

“She survived, don’t worry. But since then, the dragon has been defending its territory like an angry mama bear. As soon as anyone approaches the forest on the other side, it shows up and fights until the intruder… can be persuaded to leave.”

That’s a problem. It’s rare enough to stumble upon a conduit – a stretch of land brimming with magical energy – these days, and a dragon making it impossible to access explains the King’s impatience and agitation. “And it’s not reacted at all to your presence?”

Conduits attract all sorts of magical creatures, be it benevolent or evil ones, but most of the time they’re either eliminated or driven away. At this point, some flee at the first glimpse of black or grey clothes already. Dragons have historically been stubborn due to their unwillingness to abandon their hoard, yet after a few national heroes managed to outwit and ultimately kill some of the worms and wyverns, they understood that the Royal Warlocks are like a hydra – cut down one and two will take their place. In more recent history, they’ve put up an obligatory fight before retreating with most of their hoard. Clever creatures, no doubt. Which makes the prospect of having to slay one even more uncomfortable.

“No, not at all. It’s making no moves to give up its place.”

Meaning it’s a particularly pig-headed specimen. That, or the conduit is remarkably strong: past experiences have shown that the fiercer the resident magical creatures battle, the stronger the conduit is, allowing for a much larger number of powerful spells and enchantments before drying out. No wonder Finka was given a few weeks only to try her best before replacing her once the people in charge realised how valuable this bit of land in the middle of nowhere was.

A lot of what Finka’s telling him is no real news to Mute, but he prefers hearing first hand accounts over sloppily regurgitated information by someone not intimately familiar with the situation. “Anything else I need to know?”, is his favourite question as it usually jogs other people’s memories or allows them to divulge personal thoughts without feeling like they’re overstepping their mark. Mute remains Finka’s superior, no matter their age difference or actual experience.

As expected, the other mage hesitates for a moment before lowering her voice. “We… seem to be dealing with an omniscient dragon. I know they’re legendary creatures with powers beyond our imagination, but this one specifically seems to just… _know_ things.”

There we go. The royal lackeys didn’t mention any of this. “Why do you assume that?”

“Before the surveyor showed up, it hardly ever showed itself to the locals – their ancestors might’ve even revered it at one point. Ever since the conduit was confirmed, the dragon began defending its territory as if it knew we would try to take it. No one was allowed to cross an invisible line by the other side of the mountains anymore, whether a resident or not. And it’s not like it’s continuously scouting the entire range: it shows up only when anyone ventures too far.”

“I imagine that to be quite inconvenient.”

Finka purses her lips in agreement. “Hunters are having a difficult time these days. It got worse right after my arrival – before I even had a chance to confront the creature, it had burned down a long strip of vegetation and trees right on the other side of the mountains which I could’ve used as cover while casting spells. Somehow, it must’ve known of my presence and taken precautions.

But it doesn’t stop there. I’ve obviously tried approaching the beast from different directions, yet the result was the same. Even if I coordinated with others in groups who advanced from opposite sides to mine, the dragon started interfering earlier and managed to fend us off before we could make any meaningful progress.”

So a creature with perfect knowledge of what goes on inside its realm. Mute’s curiosity is tingling. “That’s a dangerous thing to test, I hope no one ended up seriously hurt.”

“You see, that’s the thing.” Her eyes narrow and she shakes her head in incomprehension. “It’s never killed anyone.”

Silence stretches on long enough for both of them to realise they’re on the same side.

Horcerer must’ve been the reason for Finka to mention what she did as most mages would deem the lack of casualties irrelevant. _Kill if possible_ , Mute thinks and remembers an angry puck (a kind of pixie) he once cornered as a child – with good intentions, he wanted to befriend him but ended up scratched bloody and deservedly so. Remembers his inauguration fete, when the handful of battle-hardened Royal Warlocks welcomed him into their ranks by showing off scars – scars not acquired through spells but in fights with magical creatures. Sometimes it was a Freybug terrorising a county and ripping apart unfortunate travellers, or a rare ogre who’d survived the purge decades ago, whose demise was no loss to anyone, but… other times, it’d been a knucker (a small water drake) unfortunate enough to live in a deep pond near a newly-founded town whose existence was its only mistake, or a benevolent Gytrash (a magical black dog) who had to die due to its bad reputation stemming from murderous kin. The tales of magical creatures being slaughtered for no other reason than existing are manifold.

Mute had been hoping his exemplary skill would allow for missions unlikely to weigh on his conscience as he’d be assigned only high profile, dangerous ones, but he wasn’t expecting to face a pacifist dragon. Most dragons are neutral at best and chillingly destructive at worst, with only a few exceptions.

This, apparently, is one of them.

Before he can help himself, he’s muttered: “Let’s return the favour then, shall we?”

Instead of questioning him further, Finka flashes what seems to be a rare smile and turns to a nearby barmaid to order some more of the stew for her colleague, the professional part of their conversation clearly over for the moment.

Together with long-awaited, hot, stomach-filling, divine-smelling food, the young woman delivers a sunny smile and a warm greeting: “Welcome to Akenfield! I didn’t want to interrupt – if you need me to, I’ll send someone out for your horse straightaway.”

“Oh, someone’s already taking care of her”, Mute reassures her and notices a brief confused furrowing of brows, right before Finka chimes in: “Isn’t it polite to introduce yourself first?”

And her expectant, mischievous grin cements his hope that the two of them will get along just fine.

  


~*~

  


“What’s your comfort then?”, asks Finka once they’ve stopped on a small plateau to catch their breath.

It’s early morning, too early for Mute who barely got any sleep in the unfamiliar bed – though the soft and welcome mattress wasn’t at fault, quite contrary to the prospect of having to face a literal _dragon_ the next day. It’s a realisation he’s been pushing aside for most of his journey yet now, here, half between civilisation and the creature’s territory, awe and excitement are beginning to set in.

Well. Some might call it dread.

Knowing the magical beast isn’t in the habit of ripping inexperienced wizards apart helps, but there’s worse fates than death – and being burnt enough to only just survive is certainly among them.

They’re currently crossing the mountain range via the usual pass, with countless footsteps safely guiding them past small ravines and over the occasional stream. Finka has taken this path several times before and on the way fed him half trivia, half possibly useful information about the town and its neighbours as well as the landscape in general. Mute doesn’t mind listening to her as she seems unconcerned with whether she gets a reply or not, and so he’s been quiet as they ascended the side of the mountain.

“Silence”, he answers curtly and utilises the break to stretch. Riding for a week straight has left him stiff and rusty, the walk is a welcome change.

Finka snorts. “No wonder you got this cognomen. It’s a complicated one for a comfort but you seem like someone who doesn’t make anything easy for himself.”

She’s not wrong. Usually, prospective sorcerers choose their own comfort, a spell with which they familiarise themselves to the point of being able to cast it in their sleep. It serves as proof of their profession since they can cast it anywhere and anytime, it completes their initiation if they’re still able to cast it after three days of non-stop exams, and it’s their benchmark for the magical energy around them. They should have cast it hundreds of times before they even call themselves mages, so if it behaves differently, they notice straightaway. Most mages-in-training choose something simple to reduce the risk, more of a trick than a spell, like a flimsy illusion or a quick spark.

Mute maintains that his comfort chose him and not the other way around: he’d meant for it to be Heal, not Silence. But it just so happened that his peers wouldn’t let him study in peace, not even in the library, leading to him casting several Silences every day. When he realised he could cast it upside down with his eyes closed, he decided it made for a better comfort than mending wounds – a spell he’s since almost dropped due to its rare necessity.

“It’s not even a practical one, is it?”, Finka picks up the topic again after mulling over Mute’s response. “Either it works or it doesn’t – how do you test the magical strength of your environment with it?”

He gives an unconcerned shrug. “I don’t. Never been an issue.”

“I’m curious, what kind of experience do you have?”

This question is as predictable as the previous one, usually followed by _you’re so YOUNG_ or a list of all the inquirer’s achievements to show their superiority. Finka’s disposition seems favourable, but even she must be wondering. “I’ve destroyed a vampire nest, dealt with the Beast of Clotton Moor, treated my fair share of Brownie infestations and put a handful of screaming skulls to rest.” Not the first time he’s recited it by heart.

Finka narrows her eyes. “When was your initiation?”

“Ten months ago.”

A resolute shake of the head. “You want me to believe you’ve done all that in less than a year? How did you even locate the skulls’ proper resting place? How did you convince -”

“You misunderstand. I’ve done most of those _before_ my initiation.”

He knows how it must sound. Getting accepted into the academy is an accomplishment in itself as most people are required to have completed their studies in various fields such as mathematics, astronomy, ancient Syldavian, law and history before even applying. The recruitment test is brutal and evaluates strength of character as well as patience, precision and performance under stress – and once accepted, it doesn’t get much better. Using magic is a highly dangerous skill which has to be studied purely on a theoretical level until the teachers deem the student ready; this can take between a year at the very least and sometimes over a decade. Each spell is a new obstacle and it’s not rare for people to drop out early into the practical stage, once they’ve lost a few body parts or even limbs. And even if the casting has been mastered, the student then has to pass the gruelling initiation rite lasting for 72 hours, the details of which have been kept secret for centuries.

The initiation is so tremendously rigorous that whoever passes it on the first try is immediately accepted as a Royal Warlock, the highest of all mages. And Mute happens to be the youngest among them.

That said, there’s hardly any time for extracurricular activities for those pursuing the best of the best, and the academy hardly ever allows students to come into contact with magical creatures before they’re ready. The initiation is meant to test their resolve and ensure they can hold their own when facing a bloodthirsty beast, and the teachers are loath to recklessly endanger the safety of their pupils, not when an innocent-looking will-o-the-wisp could turn out to be a misplaced boitatà about to drown the next unfortunate soul.

Even so, all he earns from Finka is surprise – and admiration, the last thing he expected. “Impressive. No wonder you’re wearing black at your age. I want to hear all about it.”

And so Mute spends the second half of their two hour long journey detailing how he relocated a bunch of Brownies to more accepting hosts at the age of ten, how he came across his first screaming skull at twelve and vowed to let its soul find rest, and how the Beast of Clotton Moor turned out to be a mean-spirited boggart who could nevertheless be appeased by excessive bowing, generous gifts and general bootlicking (a task Mute assigned to the local community – they were the ones complaining about missing livestock after all). The vampires he faced two years ago were significantly scarier and required quite a bit of precise casting which earned Mute not only the highest praise from the academy but also a month long detention. They scolded him for ‘looking for trouble’ and wouldn’t listen when he explained that the nearby forest was the only place he could get some practice without fellow students interrupting him every two seconds.

Finka listens intently, only speaking up to pose additional questions, and when he’s done, she nods approvingly. By now, they’ve reached the foot of the mountain on the other side and are facing a broad, long strip of destruction – trees have been unearthed or burnt to a crisp, the floor littered with ash, fallen trunks, leftover stumps and branches of all sizes, and the two of them are crassly visible as the only moving dots in the landscape. The dragon knew what it was doing: it’s impossible to enter the forest ahead without being seen easily.

“I was wondering whether you were ready to face an actual dragon”, his colleague admits freely, “but you should be alright.”

“You said it doesn’t kill anyone though, right?”

A grim smile causes his stomach to drop. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t try. And it _really_ doesn’t like mages.”

This is when he hears the sound for the first time, a powerful _fwoosh_ , feels a breeze, and realises only a very large pair of wings could cause both of these things.

  


It’s magnificent.

  


In the brief moment between blissful ignorance and full-blown panic, he gets a good look at the creature and still fails to comprehend it. Dark red scales reflect the sunlight like glittering copper chippings, leathery, almost see-through skin catches air and allows the massive body to soar through the sky, and talons as big as Mute’s head twitch with every flap of monstrous wings. Its horns are deep black and dull – contrary to the razor-sharp teeth –, the eyes are glimmering maliciously, and the powerful tail whips back and forth like a snake. It blots out the sun and seems to stare directly into Mute’s soul.

He’s petrified. He didn’t know it’d be this big or this – well, _terrifying_ , and even then all he can think is: _why would anyone want to kill a being as beautiful as this_.

“Brace yourself”, says Finka, breaking through his reverie right before she casts Bolster, the usual prelude to a magical fight. It quickens reactions, sharpens the mind and creates an atmosphere of extreme focus at the cost of thorough exhaustion later, but it’s necessary to cast the more complex spells correctly in the heat of the battle.

Mute’s fingers fly through the air as he mutters ‘Shield’ and only a second later, he’s engulfed in flames. He was aware of dragons being able to breathe fire but not prepared for the effortlessness of it – nor for the devastation it causes. Like this, encased in his protective bubble, he feels insignificant and is fiercely grateful for the strong energy of the place, or else the sheer neverending fire would’ve melted his shield in the blink of an eye. He can feel it now, the low thrumming of the earth beneath his feet, pulsing with power he can harness. No wonder it’s attracted the attention of a dragon.

The beast circles over them, clearly trying to push them back the way they came with fiery burst after fiery burst, but once Mute has gotten accustomed to the beam of literal flames hitting him again and again, his confidence kicks in. He drops the shield during a brief pause and draws the familiar sign in the air, finishes it with a quiet: “Silence.”

And the next time the monster opens its mouth, nothing comes out.

“Brilliant!”, laughs Finka and abandons her own shield as well. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

But Mute isn’t finished yet. Frantically, he keeps adding line after line to his current spell, frowning in concentration as he tries to match the complicated drawing in his mind – it’s a gamble, he doesn’t have a lot of time for how long it takes to cast this particular one and he fears that his Silence won’t last long, not on a creature this huge or powerful.

Confused and enraged about having lost its fire breathing, the dragon changes course and heads directly for them, and Finka’s correct. This does not look like a merciful charge.

“Paralyse”, Mute says. He managed just in time, even though the result isn’t nearly as effective as he’d hoped: he aimed for the creature’s wings but only succeeded in paralysing half of one. It seems to be enough nonetheless, the now useless part sticking out rigidly and refusing to cooperate with the elegant wave rippling through muscles and sinews and bones. The dragon veers off, loses balance and crashes to the ground not far from the two wizards, mighty claws burrowing deep into the earth to stop the slide. It’s deafening. Face to face with it, it’s even larger.

“Capture it”, Finka cheers next to him, “I’ll shield us.”

“I don’t know Entangle.” A quick side glance to a shaking head tells him Finka doesn’t either, so he resorts to the next best option: more paralysing. If he manages to hit all relevant body parts, the dragon will be defenceless and they can -

Well. They can what?

Piercing eyes fix him with a hard stare and some of his trepidation returns. The beast might not be able to fly anymore, but nothing is hindering its movement on the ground yet. And it looks bloody _pissed_.

He places all his faith in Finka who’s already cast a modified shield by murmuring ‘aspis’ to conjure up a safeguard around the two of them and begins re-drawing the same three-dimensional symbol. Retroactively, he thanks his overly strict teachers for reiterating the need to conquer his fear – focussing while a massive dragon scrambles towards him, fangs bared and snarling, would’ve been impossible without his training. He’s still shaking in his boots, that much is true, but he also manages to remain aware enough to not make mistakes. Losing a foot in the middle of this altercation could prove fatal.

Finka lets out a small yelp when powerful jaws chomp down on the invisible barrier around them. Up close, the pointed teeth are genuinely horrifying and Mute could’ve lived his whole life without having stared down the throat of a dragon, thank you very much. The shield holds, though, and so he continues casting despite the repeated attempts on his life – the monster does its best to try and bite through them, so when he can finalise the spell with another _Paralyse_ , he aims for the dragon’s neck.

With an almost comical dull sound, the huge head drops straight to the floor. So far, so good. Now just the other limbs and they’re good; it’ll take him a few minutes but they’ll be safe by the end.

Which is just as well, because now the creature is furious.

Neither being able to fly nor move its head around, it begins swiping at them, first viciously and then desperately once it’s lost all feeling in one forelimb as well. The more uncoordinated its movements become, the greater is the carnage: like a dog, it tries to dig out the ground under them, kicks and slashes and huffs in frustration. Mute flinches several times as a curved talon comes sailing straight for his face, but Finka doesn’t let him down, no matter how often she recasts the spell. It’s close though, dangerously close: they can feel her current shield waning after holding up a worryingly short amount of time just as Mute neutralises the last leg sadly twitching in their direction.

And then the fight is over.

Wholly exhausted, Finka dissolves the bubble around them and also cancels the Bolster. They’re on the dragon’s side now since it spun around to try and crush them with its hind legs, and it’s a relief to not be stuck in front of it: in between panicked panting, the dragon still gnashes its teeth, ready to snap at them should they be stupid enough to walk close.

“You did it”, Finka states and the implication is much louder: _what now?_

Mute’s brain is muddled from concentrating too much, and he blames his next action on his dizziness: he takes a few steps forward and puts his hands on the creature’s flank. It expands with every inhale, the scales hard, smooth and surprisingly warm under his palm. He could make a fortune just from these scales alone, he knows some people would pay a horrendous sum. For the teeth, the claws and the horns as well.

This is just a wild animal. A cornered animal whose territory is being threatened.

“Should we kill it?”

He shakes his head, not knowing what the alternative is. “No. I don’t want -”

And then he’s nearly knocked unconscious.

The blow is immense, something collides with his midsection and forces all the air out his lungs and before he can recover, another one sends him flying – he actually lifts off the ground and slams down a few metres away, possibly breaking a few ribs in the process. Even if he hadn’t been incapacitated by the solid strike, the damage is done either way.

The most basic rules of spell casting are as follows: Focus, or you’ll mess up and the spell will backlash. The name of the spell comes directly after the last line, or it’ll backlash. And: keep your feet on the ground, or all spells will be interrupted.

It makes sense, they’re harnessing the earth’s magical properties after all, so any break of that connection invalidates all ongoing spells. Such as Silence.

Or Paralyse.

His face goes hot as a cloud of fire nearly singes his hair, and with impressive swiftness, the dragon is back in the air, glaring down directly at him as it seems to flee, tail thrashing wildly and oh right. The tail. Mute completely forgot about the tail and his mistake cost him dearly – the beast has freed itself and they’re back to square one, plus a few broken ribs and a cracked ego.

Somewhere in his vicinity, he hears a quiet Syldavian ‘heal’ crucially _not_ followed by agonising screams, so he decides to wait it out until Finka can take care of him instead of attempting to fix himself and risk even worse injuries. Part of him expects to combust any second and another argues that the dragon isn’t in the habit of murdering – and as it turns out, the latter is accurate. Staring into the bright blue sky reveals the large silhouette distancing itself, though it doesn’t disappear. It hovers over the trees, observing with suspicion.

Finka comes through once again by casting another Heal modified for broken bones and helps him to his feet. They’re both fatigued with wobbly knees from exertion and shock. They could’ve died, yet were spared.

“This will probably not work again”, the woman sighs and ushers them in the direction back to the village. “It learns.”

“We should still make sure tomorrow, but I’m inclined to agree.” Mute turns back to the blood red creature, so small now that it’s far away. He has no doubt it’s watching their every move and making sure they really do return. At a distance, he finds no other adjective for it than _majestic_ , though he quickly remembers it crash landing and flailing around with half of its limbs malfunctioning. “That was a good Shield. And a good Bolster, too.”

His colleague nods as thanks. “Bolster is my comfort, actually. It’s much more intense here than usual.”

“Definitely helped with my Paralyse, I’ve never been that fast.”

“Even without it you would’ve been quick. You’ve got impressive technique, casting several of those in a row.”

Mute shrugs. “They’re not that hard.”

“They are.” Finka lifts her missing hand, the magical prosthesis even more faded now. “I tried it once. Never again.”

Well now he feels like an utter arse. He opens his mouth to apologise but halts when Finka shakes her head. “It’s fine. I bet my Heal is lengths better than yours.” She’ll win that bet any day. “Can I ask you another question?”

“Sure.” Not like he doesn’t know what’s coming.

“You cast… not in Syldavian. You cast in our normal language. Why does it still work?” They’re taught to only use the dead language for spells and most of the mages never question why.

“It’s the intent behind it. That’s what they teach, right? You really focus on the word and its meaning when it’s a language you painstakingly studied. But as long as you concentrate when you say it, you can use any language.”

Finka processes his words and then throws him a side glance. “How did you find that out?”

Mute grimaces. “I… tried it out.” Which could’ve ended in bloodshed, he’s well aware. “Look, my Syldavian is shite. I had the choice between polishing it or finding a shortcut, and a missing eye was definitely the more preferable option there.”

Despite its morbidity, Finka laughs at his statement. “You know what? You’re weird.”

Yeah. She’s not the first one to say that.


	2. INT is Maestro's dump stat

Their predictions prove correct. The next day, the dragon carefully remains out of range while still keeping them at bay with occasional bursts of fire until Mute manages to cast a successful Silence. All he achieves with this, though, is enraging the beast which then proceeds to bombard them first with tree trunks and other wooden bits and then eventually with rocks. Moving with a shield in place is not possible, so they try to alternate casting it while moving up slowly, but when Mute has to jump aside to escape a falling boulder the size of his torso and therefore cancels his Silence, they’re once again enveloped by fire and forced to retreat.

Other plans unfold in much the same way: partial success, but as soon as the creature understands, it finds a loophole. Two mages simply doesn’t seem like enough, so they eventually admit defeat. It appears they’ll need significant backup to come to any conclusion.

  


“I’ll keep thinking about other solutions”, Mute promises Finka right as she mounts her horse six mornings after Mute’s arrival, “you tell the King that I’m likely to come up with something. I’ll do my best. There usually is a non-bloody way to deal with magical creatures – unless it’s an ogre. Then it’s just brute force. What do dragons eat? Maybe we can feed it something sedating – but it’s too smart for that. Do you know what kind of rope is the strongest? Wait, no, there’s no way I could pull off a Levitate in less than five minutes, and by then -”

“Mute.” Her interruption is gentle and so his mouth snaps shut. They’ve gotten along surprisingly well and developed a deep mutual respect, so he’s sad to see her go. “You haven’t failed, don’t let it eat you. I’m sure you’ll come up with something, you’re clever enough. And if I think of anything, I’ll send it along with whoever the King chooses to aid you.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Her return to the capital will take roughly a week, so he’s got two weeks to convince the dragon to leg it. Right now, it doesn’t seem doable, especially without his newest friend. “Take care, alright?”

She awards him with a smile and a nod, but hesitates for a moment. “For someone called Mute, you sure talk a lot once you get going. Good luck.”

As he watches her trot away, he doesn’t have the heart to tell her _that’s because I hardly have anyone to talk to_. With a sigh, he returns to the inn’s stable to share his woes and possible new ideas with Horcerer, something he’s done for as long as they’ve been together, only to find the groom from his very first day feeding his horse a bunch of carrots. So that plan goes out the window too – he’s not going to allow a stranger to witness him using his horse as an agony aunt.

“You’re not leaving?”, the man asks curiously as Horcerer happily munches away, leaning into the touch when Mute pets her head.

“No, I’ll hold the fort. Do you work here? I’ve not seen you around.”

A half-hearted shrug is his answer. “I live around here. She really is a beaut, isn’t she?” Horcerer whinnies softly at the compliment as if she understood every word. “Any luck with that dragon then?”

“Trust me, you would’ve heard if I had. It’s too clever.”

For some reason, this seems to entertain the stranger endlessly. “Cleverer than even a Royal Warlock? That sounds like something that would interest the new guest we just got.” Mute raises a questioning eyebrow, so the man adds: “It’s a bard.”

He lets out a pained groan before he can help himself. Bards are – well, they’re a necessity and do their part to keep the kingdom informed and entertained, that much is true. Common folk are always eager to hear about remote parts of their nation yet large infodumps are impossible to remember or even digest, so serving them neatly packaged in succinct and easy-to-recall rhymes accompanied by a catchy tune is an efficient solution. With the help of travelling singer-songwriters, news spreads fast, traditions are upheld, legends remembered. They keep different cultures alive and help educate the people.

If only they weren’t all such insufferable divas.

In his current mood, there’s no way Mute can endure the company of one of them, even if they might have useful information. “I’m going for a ride then”, he announces, prompting an understanding chuckle.

  


When he returns with about two and a half semi-workable ideas (after having discarded about a hundred times as many), it’s early evening already. Taking a break in fighting a dragon and casting himself into exhaustion each day feels predictably refreshing, so he’s actually in a good mood right until he enters the largely empty taproom of Akenfield’s only inn.

“Aha! Our honourable protagonist enters the stage!”, greets him a booming voice coming from a large figure perched in an otherwise empty corner. The broad-shouldered man is illuminated dramatically from behind, outlining his stoutly physique and Mute is certain it’s not a coincidence.

He fights down the urge to immediately turn back around and approaches what can only be the newly-arrived bard. The stranger looks the part, too: with tan skin, an impressive, well-kept beard, exquisite clothing flattering his complexion and this specific type of rugged charm, he’s a picture-perfect Southern bard and probably every woman’s secret desire. Mute can’t help but take an instant dislike to him. “Any news?”, he wants to know curtly.

“Not so fast, my prodigy, first meetings are something to be savoured like a fine wine. You make a remarkable first impression, surely you wouldn’t want to destroy it through rudeness?” The musician jumps up and bows so elegantly it’s obvious he’s practised it in front of many mirrors. “May I introduce my own humble self? I am Maestro, yes, _the_ Maestro, of world fame and world acclaim!”

He beams at Mute and quickly falters the longer he gives no sign of recognising him, so as to not trample on his pride too much, Mute offers a polite: “Aye. I’ve heard of you.” It’s an understatement. Maestro the bard is indeed extremely famous and running into him here, in so remote a town, incredibly unlikely. Unless… “Are you here for the dragon?”

“My dearest, you’re rushing ahead again. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

Oh boy, here we go. “Hi, I’m Mute, and I’m a sorcerer. Outside is my horse, Horcerer.”

He could’ve done without the instant spark of amusement in dark eyes. “Ah, someone who makes an acquaintance of mischievous beings, I see. No need to be surprised, I have met many a man who fraternised with faeries, smarmed over Seelies and befriended Brownies, I’m familiar with their jokes and pranks. In fact, mere ten years ago, right when I was touring the Lundlands, I came across a group of goblins -”

“I’m not paying for anecdotes”, Mute cuts in.

“No worries, wonder child, I assure you warmly, they’re all free! So there I was, having just interviewed the hero of Morcombe who, as you surely remember, dug the canal between the rival islands of -”

“I’m also not listening”, he adds.

Maestro examines him with a mixture of horribly misplaced fondness and exasperation. “You really are a tough nut to swallow, my pretty raven. You inquire about the events shaping the land around us? Fine – but only if you agree to tell me your own story afterwards. I’ve heard of you, you rough gem, don’t think I haven’t, and I may know more than you realise.”

This bard has a particular passion for dramatics, it seems. “You know that I’m the youngest Royal Warlock in the history of this kingdom and you heard there’d be a dragon here. That’s it.”

“From North to South, here are all the important happenings”, Maestro announces proudly, completely ignoring Mute’s remark while reaching for the lute leaning against the wall next to him.

Just as he takes a deep breath, Mute quickly adds: “Oh, and no singing or no pay.”

“What a wonderful ray of sunshine you are”, the bard remarks with an audible eye roll. “Let me provide you with a bit of liquid friendliness, which will hopefully stop you ere you prohibit I rhyme as well.” The bard indicates for Mute to sit down and disappears to the bar for a moment before swooping back with two glasses of wine.

Mute eyes the burgundy contents warily. “I don’t drink.”

“Yes, you do. Now, where was I? Oh yes – the latest tidings!” And while Maestro delivers morsel after morsel of actually relevant information wrapped in flowery prose, oftentimes interspersed with personal accounts and questionable rhymes, Mute realises that yes, he does indeed drink. After the first glass, he doesn’t even mind the singsong voice Maestro resorts to. Some of it is genuinely interesting or worrying and Mute resolves to write his family once he’s back in the capital to inquire about their well-being due to a report of redcaps in the area – but apart from some bits and pieces, he’s either come across it before or finds it hardly noteworthy.

“The Barghest of Leighurst will no longer plague us!”, Maestro warbles and at this point, Mute is tired of how many different names for magical black dogs there are.

“Was it a wolf?”, he chimes in sarcastically, only for Maestro to belt out in a spectacular baritone: “IT WAS A WOOOLF!”

Of course it was.

“Hey, I said no singing.” And then, all of a sudden, he realises what a great opportunity it is to have one of the best-travelled bards of the entire continent at his disposal. “Have you ever met a dragon in all your years you’ve been travelling?”

“Don’t make it sound like I’m senile, chicklet”, the bard sighs. “I have met many a beast on my journey, and dragons are certainly among them. The largest and most fearsome must be the Behemoth of Bourgogne, a murderous monster terrorising -”

“The Behemoth was a basilisk”, Mute cuts in tiredly. “And I doubt you actually came face to face with it or you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“How about the Lindworm of Lliddell, slain by the valorous -”

“A Lindworm isn’t a dragon.”

“I knocked on Death’s door when the Nightmare of Niramor nearly crushed me under -”

“That was a wyvern. At least you’re getting closer.”

“Worry not, sweet summer child, for I know many ballads about bold heroes throwing themselves into the fray with savage dragons -”

“So you’ve never actually seen a dragon.” At this point, dejection is beginning to show on Maestro’s face. He must be used to being the centre of attention as well as mesmerising people with his stories, so Mute’s refusal to play along seems to be eating at him. “You know what? I’ll get us some more to drink, then I’ll tell you all about this particular dragon, and afterwards you tell me everything _you_ know about dragons in general. Alright?”

Maestro agrees enthusiastically – so eagerly, in fact, that Mute reconsiders for a moment – and begins interrogating him as soon as Mute sets down more wine on the table. The drink isn’t as bad as he’d feared, an acquired taste maybe, but not so disagreeable after two glasses.

During his recounting of everything that happened over the past days, Maestro takes notes religiously and asks him to retell certain parts, returning repeatedly to the first meeting when Mute nearly managed to capture the creature. He’s delighted to hear Mute actually touched the dragon and has him help with a quick sketch by describing it in close detail, then finishes by posing a few personal questions Mute either evades or answers vaguely.

“I can make a ten-minute cash cow out of this”, Maestro mutters to himself as he jots down the last sentence. “Will have to invent an ending though.”

“You could go see the dragon, too. You probably won’t end up dead – just a bit out of breath from running for your life, but you wouldn’t have to depend solely on my account.”

“Oh, no, daffodil, you’ve been most observant and helpful, I won’t discredit your intellect by questioning your words”, Maestro disagrees quickly and eyes him over the rim of his glass. “So. Now that that is out of the way – you inquire about dragons.”

“Anything you can think of. I’ve got the coin.”

“Please, let’s not tarnish your noble endeavour by putting a price on it – though I will accept twice the standard fee for this entire evening. I would advise you to stop me if you’ve heard the legends I’m about to recite before, but I have no doubt you will do so regardless. Let’s begin with Tahlar the Great and his quest to free the good people of Southmarsh.”

Though Mute is familiar with the story, he doesn’t interfere this time. Instead, he listens for characteristics of the dragon, habits, behaviour, outer appearance, anything to help him understand better – maybe there’s something in there he can use. Compared to other magical creatures, dragons are not only rare but also elusive, have avoided contact with humans for centuries and are therefore not well-documented. Their motives are not as clear as with other newly discovered beings since they seem to be intelligent yet uncommunicative.

Unfortunately, as entertaining as they are, legends and folklore are hardly a good source of information. In half of Maestro’s tales, the dragons merely threaten the population and are quickly put down (and most of these are either grossly exaggerated or flat out fake), in about a quarter, they can actually talk, and in absolutely none of them do they have the exact same powers. Overall, the consensus seems to be what Mute knew beforehand: dragons can get extremely old, spew something like fire or ice, are able to fly, and are imbued with magical power of some sort. They often hoard something and protect their collection viciously (which is something he should keep in mind), but other than that, there’s not much of an overlap: one can cause floods, another ruins harvests, a third one spreads strife, the next one can see the future. From restoration over divining to illusion, anything seems possible at the claws of a dragon.

Not knowing what he’s up against makes the whole endeavour so much harder… but Mute finds that right now, in the company of an increasingly jolly Maestro who’s begun to sing impromptu summaries of ridiculous folk tales, he doesn’t mind too much. It’ll all work out, he’s certain, and why is his tongue so heavy all of a sudden?

“I will _dream_ of fucking dragons”, he grumbles to himself, while Maestro yodels: “There once was a Gytrash in Banc / Who howled as much as he stank / Then cleared the fog / He turned out a dog / God knows what concoction he drank.”

Mute snorts at the classic format. “Hey, you got any of those about dragons?”

“Of course, sweetest lily, this one is generations old from Westhumbria: There once was a dragon called Smoke / Could turn into any old bloke / In his new form / He wooed guys by storm / But left behind hearts that were broke.”

For some reason, this is the one which tickles him pink and has him giggle for a solid five minutes, causing Maestro to beam delightedly. He’s not bad company after all, worldly-wise and entertaining, and very good at drinking large quantities of wine. Mute isn’t so good at it. “Are you saying there’s a gay shapeshifting dragon with commitment issues on the other side of the country?”, he gasps out between bouts of laughter.

The bard, who’s been watching him with a pleased smile, seems to forget to reply for a while before suddenly suggesting: “You know, I carry some material on me which you might find helpful in your current plight. It’s upstairs in my room. Want to come up and see it?”

Mute frowns. Why did it take him so long to mention this? It was obvious Mute needed all the information he could get, so where is this -

And then he understands.

He’s not going to be taken advantage of however, no matter how casual Maestro is about it. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he says: “I’m not going to pay extra for it. Just the price we agreed on.”

“Oh, believe me, honey, it’s complimentary”, the other man purrs and pulls Mute to his feet. Feet which all of a sudden don’t obey him anymore – he stumbles and is glad for the supportive arm Maestro offers. The deserted taproom is uncharacteristically wavy – they began their conversation before the inn filled up with townsfolk and carried on after all of them had left again.

The stairs are a challenge and walking in general an imposition, so he’s glad when they arrive in the small room mirroring Mute’s own and he can just _exist_ for a moment. He doesn’t remember the last time he was this dizzy. “So?”, he asks. “Where is it?”

“I’ve got it right here”, replies Maestro and, for some reason, instead of producing a tome maybe or even just a scroll, he takes his shirt off.

And by Nessie’s beard.

Mute’s brain, after having taken a prolonged vacation, is suddenly back full force yelling at him that yes, he could’ve foreseen this, and yes, this is all his own bloody fault. Instantly, his cheeks are _crimson_ because there’s a half-naked man in front of him, clearly ready to do unspeakable things to him ( _with_ him, his mind supplies helpfully), and he was not in the least prepared for this. A dragon he can deal with, a broad, muscled chest though is too much for him. “I – I’m”, he stutters, burning embarrassment making it impossible to apologise or explain himself, and then there’s this tiny voice in the back of his head: _why don’t you give it a try?_

Looking back on the situation much later, he’s fiercely grateful for Maestro’s reaction – because the bard doesn’t approach him, doesn’t try to talk him into anything, doesn’t touch him. He waits. And it’s this patience which makes the difference between vicious regret the next morning and no more than an awkward moment.

“I misunderstood”, Mute finally manages to say. “I’m sorry. I don’t -”

And again, to Maestro’s credit, he shrugs it off like a gentleman. Reassuring Mute along the way, he helps him back to his room, takes off his shoes and tucks him in before leaving.

The whole thing could’ve ended much worse, but Mute doesn’t think he’ll be able to look Maestro in the eye ever again.

  


~*~

  


The next morning, Mute climbs the mountain separating Akenfield and its inaccessible forest with a vengeance. He’s got a fierce headache, still feels embarrassment burning low in his stomach (though he did survive a brief meeting with a good-natured Maestro informing him he’ll travel the region before returning to meet with whomever the King sends out next), and has decided he’s not returning to the inn without any success. If necessary, he’ll sleep on the other side. Complementing the fresh air and gentle sunshine peeking out through soft clouds, the long walk helps reawaken his senses and clears the fatigue weighing down his bones – and it gives him plenty of time to figure out his battle plan.

This time, when the gigantic creature appears like a harbinger of death, a natural catastrophe, Mute is ready. Amid the devastated strip of what was once the forest’s natural edge, he fixes the magnificent beast with a hard stare and starts casting.

“Bolster”, is his first one, to facilitate quick spells, and then: “Mirage.” It’s a modified one and risky, riskier than what he’d normally rely on but these are special circumstances. Out of the corners of his eye, he sees mirror images of himself appear out of thin air, copying his movements – he chose five, which is excessive, but as long as he doesn’t move, they’ll hold up. He’s hoping they’ll buy him some time since compared to a Shield which requires intense focus, Mirage is relatively easy to uphold.

Plus, not having to worry about a shield allows him to do questionable things.

On powerful wings, the dragon nears, clearly aiming for a direct attack, and as it approaches, Mute draws a Silence in the air. And holds it. Standing stock still, he awaits his fate, knowing that if the creature happens to choose the correct mage out of the six visible, he’ll be in a world of pain at best and dead at worst. Knowing full well that if he so much as flinches, his comfort, hovering invisibly in the air before him, will backlash and cost him dearly. He has no choice, however, he needs to protect himself against the fire breathing as it’s the only attack which will render his illusions useless immediately. He also wants to test out whether his illusions hold up and whether he’s able to hold spells in general.

This is the biggest problem with using magic: its inherent danger makes it difficult to experiment. So he’s forced to do so while staring his potential end in the face.

He sends off the Silence as the dragon comes into range and immediately continues casting. This one is a modified Attach, easy and effective, with which he glues the dragon’s jaws shut. He can’t afford a Paralyse, not when he’s not protected by a Shield, therefore he resorts to quick, improvised solutions. He affixes a Heat to one of its legs, making it jolt right as it collides with one of the other Mutes, then places a Light directly between its eyes and Freezes a different limb. Not nearly enough to incapacitate, the nuisances are meant to disorientate and disrupt coordination, with obvious success. While the dragon, quietly raging, swoops down to bury its claws uselessly into the ground below another fake Mute, he casts what he hopes will be the last spell necessary: a modified Enhance.

“Can you understand me?”, he asks, his loud voice echoing off the mountainside behind him – it’s deafening and undoubtedly reaches the dragon, so all that remains to see is whether they speak the same language. “Give me any indication if you do, please.”

Next to him, the beast savagely tears apart another wizard who survives unscathed, ignoring him completely.

“I thought so”, Mute grumbles in a low voice which still gets projected, “might be smart, but not smart enough. Just a dumb mutated lizard at the end of the day.”

Offended, the dragon’s head snaps in his general direction.

Mute grins. _Busted_. “Look, this’ll all be easier if you stop for a moment and listen to me. I’m not your enemy and I’m trying to help. I don’t want -”

But whatever it is he doesn’t want becomes completely irrelevant the second his field of vision is filled with nothing but huge talons. With nothing to protect him, they collide with his body at full force and, to his horror, close around him to rip him off the ground. What follows is nothing but chaos, too much for him to parse: he screams, terrified, as the earth beneath him rushes past at an alarming speed and then starts to become smaller and smaller – he’s already afraid of heights and the knowledge that he can’t even use any magic makes it much worse. Amid his shrill panic, the claws open and _drop_ him, as if all of this wasn’t horrid enough because this is how he’ll die, for sure. No doubt about it.

Above him, the dragon lets out a burst of flame and must’ve taken a nosedive as it catches him just before he splats on the uneven surface, still in full flight. It juggles him for a few horrifying seconds, apparently unsure of where to grab him, and Mute does his best to hold on to the scaly limbs, with the result being a potentially fatal kerfuffle of flailing, grabbing, yanking and shrieking. Pain explodes in various places of his body where he’s either getting crushed or pierced by pointy keratin and though it seems like the monster is slowing down and flying low, he can’t take this chance. He has no trust in the creature setting him down safely, so he draws the hunting knife he never takes off his belt and stabs it deep into one of the ‘fingers’ currently holding on to him.

Like a frightened child that just got stung by a bee, the dragon jerks back and shakes him off in the process, simply tossing him aside several metres above the ground. Mute tries his best to feather the fall but has no control over his body, so he hits hard and gets stopped dead when something very, very wrong happens to his torso.

Head spinning and heart racing, his brain tells him not to look down yet he does anyway. And comes face to face with a sharp stick protruding from his chest, on the left side of his belly. Alright. He’s just been impaled. No need to panic. No reason to at all, even though he can’t heal himself with this thing inside him and there’s still an angry dragon about.

This is it. He fought a dragon and died to a stick. Hilarious, if it didn’t happen to him.

Footsteps approach and he vaguely recognises the man from the inn, the one always fawning over Horcerer, only much much paler. He’s cursing up a storm and would make a sailor proud, and his appearance is surprising. Mute’s thoughts latch on to the stranger to not have to deal with his impeding death. “Who are you?”, he whispers and draws a rattling breath. His lungs are beginning to fill with ice. He’s cold.

“You can heal yourself, right? Come on, you daft wanker, wave your hand around and heal. Do it. Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit.” The stranger pats his cheeks and seems more distressed about the current situation than Mute himself.

“Not like this”, he struggles to explain. “It needs to go.”

“Bloody moron.” It’s not obvious which one of them the guy means. Visibly distraught, he starts tugging on Mute’s limbs, attempting to drag him off the wooden rod, to no avail. “No chance. That’d probably kill you instantly. Fucking hell. Can’t you just try?”

Worth a shot. The wound would heal around the object, encasing it and making the removal a much more difficult and painful affair, but if he survives, it’ll be worth it. Mute lifts a shaking hand, fingertips almost numb, and begins casting Heal. It is, by a huge margin, the single worst spell he’s ever done, and when he finishes it, he fully expects to hex his own head off.

Nothing happens.

He waits, but all he hears is his laboured breathing, all he feels is overwhelming pain and warm hands clasping his, and all he sees is darkness encroaching on him – but there’s no repercussions to the botched spell. Belatedly, he realises that the dragon somehow disappeared as well, and instead there’s this man by his side now, and there’s a connection his brain is failing to make in its muddled state.

“Huh”, he says, because it’s curious, and faints.


	3. There was a love potion too but Smoke drank it and looked in a mirror

“I don’t care. Blackrobes die. They don’t give a fuck, so I don’t give a fuck. Let him burn.”

“You have such a disregard for life, it’s a miracle you haven’t taken mine yet.”

“Not like I haven’t tried.”

“This was never meant to happen, so he lives, conversation over. Don’t touch him.”

“I’d rather cut my finger off.”

Listening is less exhausting than letting whoever is having an argument in his vicinity know that he’s awake, so Mute remains motionless, eyes closed, wondering how he’s alive.

“Good. You do that, and I save a life not meant to be taken yet. He’s a guest, don’t forget that. And ultimately, you’re a guest too. Without his protection, there’d be nothing stopping the Blackrobes from chasing us away.”

“Let them try. I’ll make them regret the day they were born.”

Lifting his eyelids is the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he manages. He’s lying down and in some type of cavern, judging by the rough walls and high ceiling, and by his feet are two… humans? Their silhouette is human enough, though the woman’s face looks more like a skull than a normal head. Noticing his gaze, they turn to him: a distinguished-looking man with a gentle smile and a slim yet strong woman who fixes him with a withering stare.

“Don’t move”, the man warns him and steps closer. “You need to heal, which will take a while. In the meantime, just don’t move.”

_Why?_ , he wants to ask, and: _Will I be okay? Were you the one who saved me? Who are you?_ Mute opens his lips and passes out again.

  


The next time he wakes up, he’s aware enough to take in his surroundings. It’s considerably darker and nothing but oil lamps illuminate the large, mostly empty room. He’s bedded on a straw mattress on the floor and next to him, cross-legged, sits the horse-obsessed stranger and watches him curiously. As soon as he’s sure Mute can hear him, he demands to know: “Why the fuck didn’t you have your shield up?”

And Mute responds, just as accusingly: “You’re the bloody dragon.”

“You could’ve died, you knobhead! And then you didn’t even keep still so I could put you down again.”

“Well, you almost killed me, so it’s hardly my own fault.”

“Bollocks. I went for your hocus-pocus first and only attacked you when I was sure you’d be protected. The fuck is wrong with you, not having a shield?”

This whole scenario is absurd, and yet Mute feels the need to justify himself. “What are you on about? What were you even trying to do then?”

“Scare you a little. Make you realise you can’t beat me. I could’ve killed you a hundred times over, babe, but I didn’t. Turns out I should’ve been more worried about you splattering yourself.”

“You were the one who picked me up, you idiot, I could’ve died just from you squeezing too hard -”

“But you didn’t, huh? You didn’t. If you hadn’t been such a moron we wouldn’t be here right now. Do you have any idea how bloody close it was? You’d already stopped breathing.”

Agitated, they stare at each other. Mute’s memories are fuzzy, but when he thinks back, he realises the dragon often… played along. Not enough to let the mages outsmart or overpower it – him –, but just enough that they were never in mortal danger. Most of his attacks could be blocked by a normal Shield and he’d bet money on the creature testing out Finka’s limits early on before actually becoming aggressive.

And then there’s the fact that he’s dealing with a shapeshifting dragon. No one he’s ever heard of has encountered one before, and yet it’s not that hard to digest: dragons can do pretty much anything already, so why not change into human form? He remembers their previous encounters in Akenfield, with the shapeshifter nonchalantly inquiring about his presence, and suddenly, Finka’s assessment of the dragon somehow knowing about her arrival makes a lot more sense.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?”, he wonders out loud yet realises it’s a justified question.

The shrug he receives seems too casual to be sincere, as do the bloke’s next words: “I figured if I showed enough resistance, you’d eventually leave me alone.”

“No. We’re a hydra.” _There are more Royal Warlocks arriving here soon_ , he doesn’t add.

A pointed look. “Yes. Which is why I killed neither you nor Finka.”

Oh, what he’d give to be the one revealing to his esteemed colleague that she was on first-name terms with the very dragon she fought every day. “You’ve talked to her, haven’t you.”

This grin seems much more representative of the creature’s real personality – impish, Mute would call it. “Oh yes. Bought her a few drinks the day she arrived and she poured her heart out. A real sympathiser, she was. I liked her.”

“You knew she wouldn’t kill you unless you gave her a reason. But what about me?”

There’s amusement dancing in dark eyes now. “Oh, I didn’t need to talk to you directly when there was someone else intimately familiar with all your hopes and dreams.”

Mute blinks, uncomprehending. Finka is his first thought, and then Maestro for some reason, before he begins retroactively analysing every conversation he ever had in Akenfield – and just as he’s about to cast a much wider net and think back to his years at the academy maybe, it dawns on him. “You can speak with horses?”

“I can’t speak with horses, no. But with Kelpies I can.”

“But Horcerer isn’t -”

“Kelpie, cabyll-ushtey, call her what you will. She’ll probably insist on her Manx heritage, despite growing up in -”

“No, no. Wait a minute.” Mute struggles to parse this new information. “She’s – are you serious?”

The guy nods emphatically. “Aye. Never wondered what a Seelie would be doing giving away normal horses? Didn’t you notice how intelligent she is? Kelpies don’t exactly have a good reputation, you know, what with the drowning of random humans, so posing as horses is one way to ensure their own safety. Normally they fake their own death after a while, or simply run away, but Horcerer’s really gotten attached to you. Not that I can blame her, after hearing how you treat us magics in general.”

He’s momentarily distracted by the mental image of a horse dramatically keeling over, only to run away as soon as its owner is distracted. “So she told you -”

“Everything I needed to know to be sure you wouldn’t actually kill me, yes. She also mentioned the time you refused to listen to the most senior warlock – Thatcher is his name I believe – and called him old-fashioned and cantankerous in front of the King.”

The dragon is the first to actually look _thrilled_ about this anecdote and his approval is somehow vindicating. “Yes! He deserved it, too!”, Mute defends himself while sitting up a little straighter and stabbing the air with a finger. “He insisted I had to cast in bloody Syldavian, even though my method works better since you can’t cast your toes off by using the wrong declension, and I asked him whether he preferred me with or without my intestines intact. He gave me grief about my comfort as well, until I silenced the whole stupid committee with one cast and I bet he’d have kept complaining anyway if he hadn’t lost his voice. No idea why he kept bothering me and even recommended me for this mission if he doesn’t like what I’m doing. I don’t care whether he’s slain the ogre of Marshmouth and convinced the giant kraken to leave Dover alone, he’s inflexible and should rethink his priorities.”

The rant over, he deflates again and rubs his temples. “I’m dizzy now. Can I have some water?”

“Well, it’s delightful to see your Kelpie didn’t exaggerate one bit. Here you go.”

While sipping on the crude clay cup, Mute examines his conversation partner more closely. His attire is a mix of black and the rich red of his scales in his other form, but otherwise there’s no indication he’s actually speaking to a shapeshifting dragon: the wild dark hair is unkempt, his physique surprisingly strong, though he seems to be shorter than Mute himself. No wonder he regularly visits Akenfield without arousing suspicion. “Do you have a name?”

“Of course I have a name. All self-conscious beings do, but they don’t tell you that because it’s easier to kill ‘the abominable swamp monster’ than it is to kill ‘Ben’. In town they call me James, but I prefer Smoke. It sounds cooler, don’t you think?”

Mute stares as his brain helpfully provides: _There once was a dragon called Smoke_. “Ever venture out as far as Westhumbria?”

“When I was younger, yes. Maybe a hundred years ago? Why do you ask?”

It takes all of his willpower to fight back the urge to reply: _have you worked on your commitment issues in the meantime?_ This whole situation is in equal parts ludicrous, the most interesting thing to ever happen to him and unbelievable. He’s chatting with a dragon who somehow saved his life and had revealing chats with his horse-but-actually-Kelpie. Fatigue is once again catching up with him and though there are about ten thousand more questions he’d like to pose, he can feel his eyelids drooping. One aspect manages to keep his attention long enough to make it past his lips still: “How did you heal me?”

“Oh, that wasn’t me. Doc patched you up.” Smoke reaches out to lift the edge of Mute’s blanket, allowing him to peep under it – and face a view he certainly wasn’t expecting. Instead of the gaping wound which should’ve killed him before, there’s a… plant growing in the middle of his body, roots intertwined and filling up the hole completely, with a few thick leaves fanning out from the top.

“What the hell”, Mute breathes right before exhaustion overcomes him.

  


Time remains fluid for who knows how long, running through Mute’s fingers and warping his perception. Lucid moments smoothly trade places with an uncomfortable half-doze and deep sleep, and though he gathers more information during the intervals he’s fully awake, he gets the impression Smoke has to repeat himself quite a bit to actually get bits and pieces across. That said, the dragon treats him with remarkable patience and humours him more than Mute probably deserves.

“You’re a fire creature”, he states one time, to which Smoke nods. “And Horcerer is a water creature. Yet you get along. Is that normal?”

A shrug. “Sure. I’ve met some really mean Kelpies, don’t get me wrong, but our nature itself doesn’t stipulate how we interact. What, do you humans fight just because you’re from different domains?”

He considers this for a second. “Yeah. We do, actually.”

“That’s sad”, judges Smoke and Mute can’t help but agree.

Even so, questioning his saviour about his use of magic or unwritten rules in the kingdom of magical creatures proves frustratingly futile. Mute is incapable of reuniting his impression of a highly logical (if slightly clumsy) Smoke who so methodically protected the forest and analysed the warlocks’ plans and abilities, with the seemingly clueless creature who fails to introspect on its own skills. Breathing fire is as natural to him as building elaborate nests is to birds, and shapeshifting is akin to jumping – he just _does_ it, apparently, with no prompting. He’s aware of most local magical inhabitants even if he hasn’t met them at all, yet knows to stay away from certain landmarks on instinct. The deeper Mute attempts to dig, the less useful Smoke’s replies become, so he eventually gives up following a prolonged argument about whether the whole universe follows a certain kind of logic or not.

When he wants to know why magics always end up flocking to conduits, Smoke doesn’t even make up a joke answer to exasperate him and says this would the first he’s hearing of it.

Bit by bit, Mute manages to extract why Smoke is protecting this side of the mountain if not for the strong energy stored in the earth, and the eventual explanation turns out to be surprisingly simple: it’s his home. He’s been residing here for a few decades, enjoying the tranquillity of the countryside, maintaining his hoard and interacting with the locals on the rare occasions he gets bored, so he’s unwilling to give it up to a bunch of ‘arse-licking stuck-up murderers – present company excluded, of course’.

“That’s why Doc and Cav offered me their help”, he adds while shoving more and more pieces of bread into Mute’s mouth. He’s taken up the job of feeding Mute whenever he feels too weak with such glee that Mute regrets asking. “They’ve been tolerating my presence before but now we’re on one side.”

By now, Mute has deduced that Doc is the mild-mannered man who apparently saved his life with a weed, and Caveira is the scary woman who makes no sound when she walks and keeps glaring at him. So far, their interactions have been minimal, though it’s not hard to notice neither of them seem thrilled with his presence. They also bicker constantly, which would be entertaining if the topic wasn’t regularly whether they should’ve let Mute die or not.

Once Mute has swallowed the half loaf Smoke stuffed into his cheeks and survived almost choking on the crumbs (and in the future he’d rather risk splitting his abdomen open than accept Smoke’s ‘help’ again), he wonders out loud: “Are they local informants?”

Smoke shoots him an odd glance. “They’re… deities.”

Oh. Well. He did _not_ expect that.

“They’re more powerful than I’ll ever be. They’ve been here for centuries and uphold the balance in this whole area – and just like me, they don’t want your people coming here and either slaughtering all of us or forcing us to leave.”

Mute has never met a deity nor met someone who’s met a deity. They’re mighty yet elusive beings whose presence is more felt than seen, and oftentimes affect large strips of land in some way, be it by providing fertile soil and gentle climate or by an irritable aura and mosquito swarms. Legend has it they’re immortal but not immune to humanity’s impact on the land and therefore can be driven away from their homesteads. This raises another question, however. “How come they need you then? No offence.”

“Have you listened to them for a second? They can’t bloody agree on anything. At least they keep each other in check: Doc’s fatalistic and Cav’s blood-thirsty, he wants to preserve life any way he can and relocate most of this forest’s inhabitants, and she wants to obliterate all of you. They don’t particularly like me but at least with me in charge of keeping you Blackrobes in check, neither of the two gets what they want.”

“You knew everything happening on this side of the mountain because of them”, Mute realises belatedly, earning a nod. “So you three are protecting who- and whatever lives here. They can consider themselves lucky.”

Smoke scoffs and waves him off. “Most of them don’t even know what’s going on, and I prefer it that way. To be honest, some of them scare me. Have you ever seen sin-eaters perch over fresh bodies? I’ll never get those noises out of my head.”

Briefly, the vision of a few senior Royal Warlocks encroaching on this territory for no reason other than wanting more powerful enchantments at a lower risk flashes before Mute’s eyes, but he pushes it away. He feels guilty doing so yet justifies it by wanting to focus on this unique opportunity to converse with a magical being for longer than a few minutes. This might be the most important time of his entire life and he should make full use of it. “How does it feel to have an extra appendage? Since you have a tail as a dragon, but not like this.”

The eye-roll he gets is as expected as amusing. “If you keep pestering me with those bloody questions of yours, I’ll end up unable to shift because I’m thinking about it too hard. Just shut up and eat, babe.”

And as they begin fighting over whether Smoke is allowed to continue abusing Mute with edible substances, he idly wonders how many people in history have been called _babe_ by a dragon.

  


~*~

  


Recuperation is slow and feels slower; Mute has no concept of how long he drifts in and out of consciousness and refuses to believe Smoke’s assurance it’s been about three days. The odd plant seems to be doing its job, however, as it continues to produce more leaves and reduce the depths of its roots – instead, it leaves behind functioning tissue visible through the entangled brown tendrils. Mute tries not to look too closely. To do its work, it seems to feed on his energy, causing him to be deadly tired all the time, yet after the initial phase he manages to stay awake a couple of hours at once.

Smoke is a gracious host with absolutely no clue of how often humans need to eat. He somehow managed to exist for over one hundred and fifty years (which he assures Mute is hardly noteworthy for his kin) fully convinced humans only ever ate dinner, and if he caught anyone eating in the morning or afternoon, he figured they were simply greedy. Once Mute told him that he requires a ton of food not only because of his physique but also because he’s healing, Smoke began showering him in meals he either stole, purchased, or produced himself. It took another day for Mute to talk him into letting the wizard do the cooking of wild animals seeing as ‘severely charred’ wasn’t Mute’s favourite way of preparing meat.

He tried to squeeze out of Smoke what dragons ate and, after several failed distractions and a few obvious lies, received the response: _overly inquisitive warlocks_. He got the hint and stopped asking.

  


“Can I see your hoard?”, he wants to know on the fourth day. He remembers Smoke mentioning it and while he possesses no desire to be clad in gold himself, he’s curious to see how many valuables Smoke has managed to amass over the years. Asking about it feels natural, which is odd: historically, dragons have been jealously guarding their collection, and though he knows Smoke wouldn’t want to hurt him, he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome either. For some reason, he cares about what Smoke thinks of him.

“You can’t walk”, Smoke points out and curses, he’s right. Mute is not meant to move around too much for fear of dislocating the very organism repairing his body. Then, the dragon muses, almost to himself: “I should have a wheelbarrow somewhere…”

A few minutes later, Mute is being carted around in Smoke’s home. It’s a spacious cave system nestled into an extension of the mountain range separating Akenfield from Doc’s and Caveira’s forest, with a small stream gurgling through some of the caverns and plenty of openings to allow for picturesque sunbeams to illuminate the caves during the day. Mute hasn’t seen most of it and is almost too busy looking around to notice Smoke nearly tipping him into the water at some point.

“It’s not what you might expect”, Smoke prefaces what appears to be the last turn, “don’t be disappointed.”

Mute is about to pose additional questions yet pauses when another grotto opens up before them. He instantly understands what Smoke means – there is no jewellery. There is no gold, no gems, no precious metals. He, in his childish naivety, was looking forward to a masterful assemblage of huge diamonds lost centuries ago, of crowns from long-forgotten kingdoms and coins of all origins, but instead is confronted with what looks like a flea market. There are all kinds of different furniture overflowing with trinkets, entire wardrobes stuffed full with clothing, glassware, weaponry and statues, even live plants are scattered in between. It’s a conglomeration of randomness the likes of which Mute has never seen before – no apparent order, no system, no rules, just… objects. Bits and bobs. Paraphernalia.

Even getting stuffed into a wheelbarrow with all his limbs hanging out before being driven around by a shapeshifting dragon effortlessly trumps a chaotic collection of clobber, so he can’t keep the disillusionment out of his voice: “This is it?”

“Do you have so little faith in me?” Smoke sets him down and begins climbing over various obstacles – and there’s rustling coming from somewhere else now. Out of the corners of his eye, Mute detects movement and catches a glimpse of a potted plant shivering in anticipation as well as a small item scurrying under an ivory desk. “Most of these”, Smoke swats something away which looks like a fluttering napkin, “are enchanted”, he catches himself mid-fall on an armoire and leaves behind a bright purple handprint fading slowly, “though I have no idea what the majority does.” Having found what he’d been looking for, he holds up a red whirligig that starts spinning as soon as he blows on it. “This one is my favourite: it makes you doubt everything. … at least I think that’s what it does.”

Mute scrunches up his face. “That’s not an enchantment I’ve ever heard of. I don’t think it can do that.”

“You’re right. I’ve got much more impressive ones lying around. Though to be honest, they’re not _that_ impressive.” He stops the wheel and tosses it aside, reaching for a heavy scarf instead. “This is a pottery course.”

“A pottery course”, Mute echoes numbly because he has no idea what’s happening anymore.

“Put it on, and you’ll learn.” Smoke climbs his way back and drapes the soft fabric around his neck. And, sure enough, Mute suddenly knows the very basics of pottery.

“Impossible”, he sputters and, without thinking, begins drawing in the air. It’s not a spell he’s had to cast often but with how much he practised each one he’s added to his repertoire over the years, it still feels natural. He finishes with a muttered _Detect_ and inspects the cloth more closely until he realises that instead of slapping on a few runes to turn the object magical, the enchanter wove each spell into the fabric. And there are _hundreds_. On second glance, Mute notices they’re all illusion spells, though instead of projecting something into the real world, they seem to affect the wearer’s thoughts. Right now, it’s deceptively easy to picture forming clay despite never having done it or even seen it in person. “That’s so fucking clever”, he murmurs, amazed, and hands the scarf back. Instantly, the images become less clear – what remains are his own memories of the pictures he saw.

Smoke is displaying his smuggest grin yet. “Impressed? This is what I hoard: curiosities.”

And suddenly, the entire grotto becomes the world’s most interesting place. It might as well have started to sparkle and glitter with how reverently Mute is now eyeing the many, many objects, all harbouring their own little secret. This? This is better than a library. It’s a pandemonium of puzzles. An accumulation of awesomeness. A heap of hands-on history just waiting for him to discover. He’s basically vibrating with excitement in his wheelbarrow at this point, gaze flitting from one eye-catcher to the next. Overcome with emotion, he’s rendered speechless as it begins to sink it: this is the most valuable collection he will ever have access to, and he’s got limited time to assess it. If Smoke is forced out of the forest, there’s no way he’s leaving this behind. And if he – if he dies -

“Babe. It’s alright.” A soothing hand cards through his hair and Mute finds he doesn’t mind the sudden touch. “You brushed against the lantern which makes everyone sad. I’d put the bloody thing further to the back, but I don’t wanna carry it. Have a good cry, that counters the effect.”

As if on cue, Mute begins tearing up and shaking, remembering all the bad things in his life and simultaneously thinks: _I wonder which runes they used for this one_. “This”, he gasps out between loud sobs and gratefully holds on to Smoke who stepped closer, “is the best day of my entire life.”


	4. Sometimes, Doc has songbirds braid Cav's hair

The second time Smoke finds him passed out from exhaustion in the wheelbarrow, he bans Mute from his hoard. Instead, he carries a random assortment of items to his bed and allows him to continue his examinations there without running the risk of vicious cramps or his scalp falling asleep once more.

It’s no surprise it becomes Mute’s new obsession. Even in his dreams, he casts Detect over and over again. Some of the trinkets have amusing though useless effects and some pose nigh unsolvable riddles – most of those require a specific action to be triggered, which is encoded in the runes somewhere, to achieve a certain result that is also highly unclear. The ones looking actively dangerous Mute avoids for the moment, but a puzzle box gives him grief for almost an entire day until Smoke confirms the enchantment to be there simply to prolong the box’ life, while its solution is purely mechanical.

He comes across a walnut which, when cracked, would build a wall until it connected with other solid objects – therefore, cracked by a bird in mid-air, it’d create a sheer endless wall in both directions. Mute hands it back to Smoke with the recommendation to trigger it at a safe location. He inspects a cursed hoof which makes it rain on its current holder. There’s a piece of chalk meant to summon a demon as large as the circle drawn with it, and there’s worryingly little left. A pair of shoes adapting to its wearer’s feet, making both shoes the correct one for either foot. A collar turning everything that it touches green. A glass of water which, when spilled, will cause flower petals to slowly drift up to the ceiling. A cinnamon stick tasting of home. Two rings that switch the fingers they’re placed on.

There are spells he’s never seen before, unknown modifications, utterly unique and innovative applications and creative combinations he’s never encountered. The technical level is astronomical, challenging and incredibly rewarding once he’s figured out the workings behind the runes. He’s in heaven.

What’s even better is that Smoke shares his enthusiasm – the dragon seems relieved someone finally appreciates his collection and puts it to some use. He listens to Mute explain his thought process when analysing a new relic despite clearly not understanding more than half of it, and is astonished at how humans need to acquire very precise skills and obey inflexible rules to use magic, while it comes naturally to him at no risk or cost.

Mute is always eager to share knowledge with a listening pupil, and yet it somehow feels like… treason. By teaching Smoke the boundaries of a mage’s abilities, he’s providing him with an advantage over the King’s Warlocks who will inevitably clash with him. And though Mute resents most of his colleagues’ attitude, he owes them a great deal. They provided his education, pay his salary, allow him to come into contact with this many magical creatures in the first place. Betraying them by informing their enemy leaves behind an unsavoury taste in his mouth.

Even so, he can’t help himself and has to share his findings with _someone_ or else he’d explode. There are one or two instances when Smoke is gone during one of Mute’s waking phases, and he’s almost miserable in his absence. Trying to address any of the tiny living books which have adopted him and perch on his head or his shoulders while he conducts his research only leads to them flopping down and playing dead to get him to stop ranting about the beauty of an equilateral heptagon. Actually, none of the other semi-conscious beings dwelling in Smoke’s hoard are willing to humour him. A large snake plant with dry humour even starts shedding its leaves as soon as he mentions the ingenious use of alteration spells in conjunction with illusion ones to seemingly teleport the unsuspecting drinker of an innocuous bottle labelled ‘rum’ to the Antarctic.

Philistines, the lot of them.

But the absolute highlight of his time spent in Smoke’s home isn’t just discussing the fruits of his investigations with his host, it’s putting them into use.

  


“Drink this”, says Mute and presses a black vial into Smoke’s hand. “It’s the greatest thing I’ve come across today.”

“This won’t turn me into a bird or something, right?”

“No, but I’ve got another one that will apparently make you fly. This one first. I’ve tried it myself, and there’s a reversal right there, so go ahead.” Eyes sparkling, Mute watches as the other man takes a suspicious sip of the tasteless liquid. It turns out old-time wizards were obsessed with enchanting water. “Now say a few long words.”

Smoke still doesn’t look convinced. “Like what? What’s this tionpo posedsup to do?”

“Exactly that!”, Mute beams. “Keep talking.”

“Ousilarhi. Gon’sdra nuts, how ingatrifuin. Ingnoyan. Lypure a sancenui.” Gradually, Smoke’s expression is lightening up. “You know, I love this. Ginemai the King inghold a speech like this. Do you onreck you could slip some of it toin his wine?”

They’re both cackling now, even though Mute barely understands a word he’s saying. “You’re unintelligible.”

“Blegilitelinun. Blesihenprecomin. I should live through an tireen day like this. Doc and Cav would rip my head off.”

“I would too, to be honest. Here’s the antidote. You have to apply it -”

“Lylutesoab not. I’m ingjoyen this too much. Lycialpees causebe you’re inghav a hard time ingstandderun me, forethere I can pressex everwhat I want. Like how I’d errath be gingsnog you lesssense.”

Laughing, Mute helplessly shakes his head. The effect of reversing syllables renders longer words completely unintelligible. “Look, I have no idea what you’re on about. Don’t expect me to answer.”

“Your asmsithuen is gioustacon and you’re lyreal blekeali. Sidesbe, your hindbe is nalmenophe and you’re very syea on the eyes.” Mute raises an eyebrow. “Fuck. That wasn’t as nyma bleslasyl as I thought.”

“Are you just secretly complimenting me?”

Smoke smirks. “Bemay.”

“Alright, enough out of you. Hold still.” Mute wets his fingertips with the reversal and reaches out to Smoke who, surprisingly, lets him touch his throat without protest. His skin is smooth and, as Mute has noticed before, unnaturally warm – his body temperature is higher than that of a normal human, the first significant difference he’s found between them in this form. The liquid only needs to come into contact with the afflicted person’s neck to take effect, and yet his hand lingers, digits wandering up and down gently for no discernible reason. This isn’t the first man he’s ever touched, nor the first caress he’s given, but it was usually hurried or accidental or embarrassing instead of… peaceful. Voluntary. And so he lingers, runs his thumb along Smoke Adam’s apple, brushes over his collarbone.

He raises his gaze to meet Smoke’s just as he tilts his head back a little, chases his touch. They regard each other in total silence.

Mute isn’t stupid.

He caught some of what Smoke was saying, not all of it, but the important bits. He’s also aware that loneliness is a dangerous affliction plaguing them both. But he chooses to believe it’s not that. Maestro proved it’s not that. This goes beyond, and its foundation is respect and having saved each other’s lives and the building set on it is made up of shared afternoons in a dusty grotto full of wonders and curiosity on both sides.

His hand is resting on Smoke’s jaw now. A few inches further, and he’d lean in, Mute has no doubt. The air is still between them.

“Should be good now”, he announces, voice uneven as he drops his arm back onto the blanket. He can’t shake the impression he made a mistake, but he can’t tell whether it was touching Smoke in the first place, or stopping. “Want to try out the potion of flying?”

To his immense relief, Smoke joins in with his pretence that nothing just happened, and simply smiles. “I think I’ll let you go first, babe.”

And though a certain bittersweet tang remains, at least the awkwardness between them dissipates as soon as Mute begins floating towards the ceiling. By the time they discover that the antidote is empty, they’ve largely forgotten about Mute’s slip-up, and once Smoke has thrown him a rope and drags him through the caverns like a kite, they’re back to laughing openly again.

Mute scours the trinkets for a solution until he at least finds a description of the concoction he downed which states the effect wears off after half a day. As floating doesn’t require him to move too much, he spends some more valuable hours in Smoke’s hoard until he can’t stop yawning.

There’s one more moment, however, when Smoke offers to hold him down with his body while Mute sleeps, and though they don’t take that route and end up loosely tying him to the mattress after weighing it down, Mute’s cheeks are still hot by the time he dozes off.

  


~*~

  


“You have two options: letting it grow out by itself, which will take about a month, or I rip it out right now and you heal yourself.”

Doc really does remind Mute of a doctor with his professional attitude and calm manner. He’s warmed up to him a tad, though it only took a single disapproving glance for Mute to not even consider talking to him about the wonder of enchantments ever again. The plant holding Mute’s insides together has done its job and is now only superficially connected with his body; Doc has snipped off the stalk close to Mute’s skin which is rippling uncomfortably over the leftover roots inside. The leaves were really getting in the way, so Mute is glad to see them gone.

“Will it keep sucking my life juice?”, he wants to know, eyeing his torso suspiciously. His sleep schedule is still messed up.

“You mean to ask whether the symbiotic partnership would continue? Yes. I can see it’s not your preferred path, but consider this: if you get injured again, it’ll reach out and heal that wound as well.”

If anything, that makes it _worse_. “Go for it. I’m grateful for what it’s done, but… I think I’m good.”

“As you wish. You might want to close your eyes.”

Holy shit, he really wasn’t kidding about _right now_. Before Mute’s panic can show on his face, Smoke pipes up from the other side of the makeshift bed: “Give him some fucking willow bark, for crying out loud, or something stronger.”

Doc purses his lips. “A waste of resources. It’d only last for a few seconds while he casts a spell.”

“ _You’re_ a bloody waste of resources. Come on.”

With a deep sigh, Doc stretches out his hand and seems to wait for nothing in particular, until a kestrel swoops in, drops a tiny bottle directly into the deity’s palm, and is gone again in a flash. Him having control over the local wildlife explains a _lot_. “Drink this.”

Mute obeys without question and is about to ask whether it’s still going hurt when Doc unceremoniously grabs what little is still sticking out of Mute’s belly and _yanks_. The feeling is indescribable and… disagreeable, to say the least, he can tell something is uncurling directly below his skin and getting pulled through a small opening, though there’s no pain mixed in at all. He groans in discomfort and jolts when the final inches cause a larger tear which instantly starts pouring blood. Regardless, whatever it was Doc gave him, it’s doing its job. “Please tell me that stuff isn’t addictive”, he states and wastes no time in drawing a Heal.

“It’s not”, Doc replies curtly. “Mostly because I’m not giving you any more.”

He finishes the spell and mops up the blood with a corner of the blanket after the wound has fully closed. He feels nauseous, but healthy – and he can’t wait to hike and explore the immediate area. Legs itching for a walk, he shakes them out and stands up unsteadily. “Thank you”, he directs at Doc’s back. The deity hates wasting time and merely waves him off without turning before disappearing around the corner.

“How is it?”

And here’s the reason Mute isn’t rejoicing over being able to stand on his own again.

“Good”, he responds cautiously. “I feel good.” Both of them know what this means and neither of them is brave enough to say it. They’re eye to eye now, Mute indeed a few inches taller. Once again the silence between them is deafening. It’s been less than two weeks, that much Mute knows, yet it feels like an entire year or a single day. Sleeping so much has warped his perception of passing time and he wishes he could retroactively spend more time awake. Mostly because of the hoard. But not only.

“So”, Smoke starts, and Mute can’t interrupt him fast enough: “Remember the fireworks stick you showed me? I figured it was one of the few that could be done with a modified Fire spell, so I reverse engineered the rune – which was not easy, let me tell you – and figured out how to cast it. I can show you outside. It’s getting dark soon anyway.”

Maybe if he delays it, he’ll be able to spend the night. The prospect holds something unspeakable, a shadowy promise to no one in particular, a blurry expectation even Mute can’t quite make out. All he knows is that he wouldn’t use the time to sleep. He’s slept enough.

Smoke agrees and they venture out into the fading sunlight. Mute has been wheeled here before, to the edge of the entrance, yet didn’t get to step out onto the large meadow with lush grass that looks like it’s bending away from the cave, like it’s seen a thousand beats of giant wings carrying a majestic creature into the sky.

He considers taking Smoke’s hand. He doesn’t.

And right into his whirlwind of conflicting and confusing emotions, a single word drops like an anvil. “You”, someone says and their fury is audible.

They turn around and face the sudden interruption: Caveira is shaking with rage in the middle of the open field, hateful gaze directed at Mute. Ever since she realised Doc wouldn’t allow her to end Mute, she’s stayed away, and he’d been hoping not to run into her again. “Leave him alone”, Smoke warns her, to which she doesn’t bat an eye.

“I spoke with the wind”, she continues, “and I tasted the rain. There are more Blackrobes coming. They sour the soil wherever they tread. And you are the one who summoned them.”

“Either way, they would’ve come”, Mute defends himself weakly which only serves to increase her anger.

“You’re the source”, she insists, and then Mute gets a perfect demonstration as to why Bolster is a requirement in all fights: in one heartbeat, Caveira is glaring at him, and the next she’s gone, simply disappeared. There’s another flash, and suddenly something very, very big narrowly misses Mute’s head as it swoops to intercept the threat. Smoke’s tail catches some of his hairs on its wide swipe, and then collides with Caveira, stopping her in mid lunge and throwing her back.

He hasn’t even fully comprehended what just happened before the two are locked in a vicious fight, and it makes him realise that Smoke was not for a _second_ serious about hurting either him or Finka. Powerful jaws snap together around Caveira’s body, though she dissolves into black smoke which reforms seconds later back to her usual form. Claw swipes and wing slashes are wild enough to hit anyone unlucky enough to stand too close, so Mute instinctively casts a Shield and hopes for the best. It seems as if he is Caveira’s only target as she time and time again darts towards him, only to be stopped by a wall of fire or another tail whip. Smoke is fast, a sight to behold, yet still no match for the deity, and eventually, Caveira climbs up onto his wing, slides down to his back and simply punches her fist through the scales.

Smoke’s wail is thunderous. Never before has Mute heard any living being utter a noise like this. It’s a bone-chilling cacophony of despair and pain, and now he sees it too: grey spreads out from the wound, causes the rich red to fade to a sickly ash colour, and then the skull-like face turns to him.

She’s faster than anything Mute has ever encountered, and no doubt a hundred times as deadly. Within a second, she’s by him, metal gleaming in her hand and he doesn’t know whether it’s a weapon or an extension of her body, and then she effortlessly punches through his shield. Her grimace floats before him, petrifying, and for some reason she looks… scared. Desperate.

“Caveira!”

The name is roared with authority and instead of dying, Mute gets to witness something heartbreaking: all the fight leaves the distorted face opposite his own, shoulders slump, the body taut like a bow deflates. Instead of a god of death, he’s confronted with an unwanted, terrified being with no options left.

“That is enough. Reverse it.” Doc indicates the mighty dragon, now croaking small puffs of fire as it lies flat on the ground, shuddering in agony. This image is what makes Mute understand just how ruthless his kind is: here are actual deities who can kill a dragon with a single touch, and they fear humanity – not because humans were particularly strong, but because of their tenacity. The Royal Warlocks approaching Akenfield might all die to Caveira. But the King will send out more and more waves, generations will fight for this space that isn’t theirs and eventually, they will have drained these two completely.

Caveira turns her back to him and takes her time walking over to Smoke. The unhealthy colour has spread even further, but when she sticks her hand into the wound once more, it retreats again, gets sucked back into her. Smoke’s pitiful noises make Mute’s skin crawl. The huge injury remains.

“We’ll find a solution”, Doc assures her as she just keeps walking, sparing the panting dragon no more attention. To Mute, he simply says: “Heal him.” Then he trails after his kin, speaking calmly.

Mute is shaking. The shock sits deep in his stomach and he belatedly realises that he could’ve watched Smoke die, and the overwhelming terror over this prospect makes it hard to act. He stumbles forward, dropping down beside the huge creature and, in a hollow echo of their first encounter, puts a hand on his flank. “I’ll try”, he chokes out, teeth chattering. “I’ll try, alright? You know how much I fucking hate Heal. It’s the stupid vine-like thing, remember, I can never draw it right. Relax. I’ve got you.”

He inspects the damage and fights down another wave of dizziness when he catches a glimpse of yellowed bone between all the blood. Not letting go of Smoke, he starts drawing, putting line over line, constructs the spell from the ground up and -

\- and then Smoke coughs, his massive body threatening to crush Mute and he loses it, he loses track and he fucking _knew_ this would happen, and the spell backlashes. Others have described it like a bowstring snapping, like a catapult firing prematurely, and Mute expects it to blow up in his face, take an eye or an ear or an entire leg, but nothing happens. Nothing happens at all.

This is the second time. It’s no coincidence. Mute doesn’t believe he’s lucky. The ground he stands on must be utterly supercharged, must house enough magical energy to last an entire century. Nothing will happen to him.

And then something moves above him. Slowly, a large wing unfurls and awkwardly tries to drape itself around him. The angle is all wrong and Mute nearly gets knocked off his feet, but the gesture is unmistakeable. Fighting a smile, he presses himself against the leathery appendage and takes a deep breath. Without any negative consequences and knowing Smoke believes in him, he attempts the spell again, this time modifying it properly to account for an injury this severe, and when he sends it off with a confident _Heal_ , he can watch the edges growing towards each other with each passing second.

The limbs retract, the torso shrinks, and then it’s Smoke by his side again, human Smoke, looking pale and worse for wear, yet wearing a small, relieved smile. Words aren’t needed for a moment in which they beam at each other.

“You really are bloody shit at healing”, Smoke states and all the pent-up dread bubbles out of Mute in the form of an almost hysteric laugh.

It’s not the time for laughter, though it feels good nonetheless. “I never would’ve thought I’d meet someone ready to fight a god to protect me”, he teases, not missing how it falls a little flat. Caveira’s outburst was a much-needed reminder for the incompatibility of their motives, regardless of how well they might get along. And it’s painful to realise he will miss Smoke even more dearly than anyone else in his life.

They worked. At no point did Mute feel like he needed to hide any part of himself to appease Smoke, and whenever his studious side came out, he earned attention, praise and intelligent questions. Even though Smoke was no help whatsoever in shedding light on the average lives of magical creatures, he did his best to accommodate Mute in all other regards. He took him in stride.

It’s so fucking _easy_ to be around him.

“Probably best if I leave now”, he hears himself say.

Smoke nods. “Aye. Probably best.”

They linger, a few feet apart, eyeing each other.

“How do you transform with your clothes on?”, Mute wants to know, and Smoke laughs and says: “Shut up, babe. Don’t question it.”

They hover. Mute’s lip starts quivering.

“This is a real fucking shitshow, the whole -”, Smoke starts and Mute steps forward and kisses him.

It’s his very first, and he should’ve given it to Smoke days ago.

The dragon’s expression is soft now, unguarded, vulnerable, and all he gets out is a gentle _babe_ before he drags Mute back in for another, longer one, guiding him in sliding their lips together properly and yes, _this_ feels like the real thing now. He can’t compare it to anything, none of his achievements, because this is much more tangible. He’s tingling all over, craving more contact and basically _melts_ when Smoke curls a hand around his head to keep him in place. Holding back is not an option, and Smoke seems to like the small appreciative noises he makes anyway, and doesn’t even object when Mute wraps his arms around him.

It’s an outpour of bottled-up emotions and awakens all sorts of things in Mute, things he did not realise would have such an impact on him. Smoke smells fantastic, of fresh grass and bonfire and himself, and Mute can’t get enough. They break the kiss only to realign and it’s sweet and really, really, _really_ hot at the same time. He tightens the embrace, clings and squeezes and tugs and holds, and already knows this memory will stay with him forever.

Smoke is muttering his name like a prayer, as if he’d be granted more if he kept asking, and Mute isn’t even sure he realises he’s doing it. They’re wholly caught up in each other, the past horrors easily forgotten thanks to the comforting hug, and they kiss like they mean it.

And, well. They do mean it.

A wishful thought steals into his head and he decides to let it see the light of day. Among wizards, it’s common to refer to each other by their assigned cognomina, but close friends (and family of course) tend to use their original names. And if Smoke doesn’t fall into that group, no one ever will. Mute nips at the other man’s lower lip for a last time and withdraws to tell him his real name, only to witness himself utter the words: “Hi, I’m Mute and I’m a sorcerer, and that is my horse, Horcerer.”

Despite visibly trying, Smoke doesn’t manage to fight down a disbelieving laugh, ruining what little was left of the previous mood, and Mute can feel himself blush furiously in embarrassment. He’s glad to have an excuse to look around and, right on cue, Horcerer appears on the edge of the forest, trotting towards him innocently.

“I meant to say that I’m called Mark”, Mute explains tersely and fails at suppressing his mortification. Smoke is laughing so hard he looks like he needs to sit down any second. “What a great way to say goodbye.”

The steed nudges him affectionately once she’s made her way over and blinks at him with her large, peaceful eyes until he relents and pets her cheek.

“For what it’s worth, she’s sorry about interrupting”, Smoke gasps, holding on to his midsection to keep his giggles under control. “Doc called her over so you don’t have to walk. Oh, and she likes it when you pat her shoulder or scratch her behind the ears. And the one time you accidentally called her ‘babygirl’? She actually didn’t mind. You can keep doing it.”

“Alright, this is getting weird. I’ll just… go”, Mute announces and vaguely points in the direction he thinks Akenfield lies.

Smoke nods, and this time, the silence isn’t nearly as charged as before. They step close again, exchange a last brief kiss as well as a few words simultaneously full and devoid of meaning: Smoke mumbles a _take care, Mark_ , and Mute replies _I’ll try to work out something with the other warlocks_ , and though they do mean what they say, they don’t say what else they mean. For their future, it’s better left unsaid.

Walking away is one of the hardest things Mute has ever done. He has to struggle to keep moving as his legs don’t want to cooperate and the world around him is blurred; riding Horcerer feels inappropriate somehow now that he knows she’s an intelligent being as well, and so he ignores her insistent head bumps until she attempts to lick his cheeks.

“I’m not wiping them away”, he informs her quietly, trying hard to stay composed, “he’ll see it. If he’s even still looking. And I can’t check because he’d see me looking. If he is. And don’t tell Doc I cried. You know I’m terrible at all of this. I shouldn’t be telling you all this either, I bet you’re sick of hearing me complain, no idea why you haven’t run away yet or faked your death…” He trails off when Horcerer steps in front of him, blocking his path and regarding him with such compassion, he can’t take it anymore.

He slings his arms around her and buries his nose in her warm fur until he can breathe normally again. “If he fucking dies, I’ll never forgive myself”, he whispers before angrily wiping his face and climbing onto his horse’s back.

“Let’s just go.”


	5. Sorry, I couldn't hear you over the sound of how cute you are when you think I'm listening

When he arrives at the inn, the sun has long set already and most everyone is asleep. Overjoyed at seeing him alive and well, the innkeeper tries to question him as to his experiences but graciously accepts his excuse of being tired and allows him to retreat to his unchanged room. The other mages haven’t arrived yet but Maestro is back – Mute can hear his snoring on the other side of the wall –, so at least he’ll have someone to talk to the next day. It’s not a bad idea to feed the bard what really happened, because even if anti-magics propaganda will be spread from here, people will have heard the true story first.

Co-existence is the most obvious and best solution, no doubt, if only both sides were willing to compromise. Mistrust runs deep, however, and Mute can’t blame Doc and Caveira for not giving the King’s mages the benefit of the doubt, not when they’ve been terrorising all magical creatures for so long. And on his own side? It’s obviously a mistake to allow senior Royal Warlocks to advise the King on all matters magical. Ask a soldier, you’ll hear about war. The warlocks’ main assignment is protecting the people, meaning they come into contact mostly, if not exclusively, with the malevolent and dangerous side of magics. Diplomats are needed where mercenaries are all that’s available.

Outing himself as a sympathiser can cost Mute his credibility, but hiding his real opinions will accomplish nothing. He’ll have a difficult tightrope to walk after already earning a reputation of being a troublemaker. He’s not sure he can win this.

Convincing Doc, Caveira and Smoke to leave is the next best alternative and just as improbable as the first. They will not give up their home without a fight Mute is sure they’ll eventually lose. The time span before that scares him.

There were no enchanted trinkets to help in his dilemma either, not unless the King maybe attracts a long died-out plague for which Smoke happens to have the last remedy. Some of them do affect the mind, though using them would not only be unethical but also mean Mute’s death.

His lack of options is sobering. Lurking in the back of his mind is a suggestion too extreme to be really considered, but the longer he agonises over what to do and what to tell his incoming colleagues, the more attractive it becomes. He’d be throwing his entire life away and breaking the oath that he swore to the King, yet he’d be doing what feels right. If possible, he’d prefer not becoming a traitor to his race however, especially with how frosty his welcome to the other side would be. Even after Caveira understood that Mute wasn’t a threat, quite the opposite, she treated him with disdain. No, the world of magics doesn’t seem like a very inviting place to live.

But he could be with Smoke. He could abandon his former life and live by his side.

And once this thought is in his head, all other deliberations are futile. His concentration is lost and all he feels are unnaturally warm lips on his, strong arms around his waist, this _smell_ surrounding him. The memory overpowers any coherent train of thought and leaves him aching, grows more powerful when his imagination kicks in and continues where Horcerer interrupted them before. He’s never felt like a lit torch before, never experienced a lightning strike inhabiting his body, an unprompted urgency coupled with a pulsing deep inside his body. Vague impressions combine with measured breaths in his ear, exhaling air which shoots through him and stops halfway through to intensify this unbearable need.

It’s the perfect description of what he feels: he _needs_. If he doesn’t find satisfaction, he’ll burn up. If he doesn’t get what he requires, he’ll wither away. And Smoke is the embodiment of it, the very real imagined personification of all that soothes this directionless groping, the hold Mute barely realises he’s seeking. In his mind, Smoke is kissing him endlessly, gazing at nothing but him, providing warmth. In his mind, it’s Smoke’s hand.

Mute writhes on the lonely, unfamiliar mattress, and bites the pillow in an attempt to keep quiet, but when relief comes, it’s not enough. It feels like nibbling on an apple after not having eaten for days. It’s temporary. Mute thinks back to floating, to Smoke offering to hold him down in his sleep. He should’ve accepted.

He should’ve started kissing Smoke the day they met and never once stopped.

  


This night, he dreams. It’s rare enough that he remembers since his dreams are usually convoluted, choppy, and disjointed, but waking up, he can recall some details. Finka featured heavily in it, lecturing him about the correct use of this spell or that, and he clearly pictures himself disregarding all her advice and doing it all wrong without repercussions. He wonders how she’s doing and whether she’ll be part of the group the King has sent to Akenfield. He wonders how this conduit is so incredibly powerful that it negates any kind of backlash and whether there’s not any merit in opening a school here.

His academy keeps moving regularly, under the guise of operating in a thoroughly magic-less environment to incite excellence in its students – the threat of losing body parts to a badly cast spell certainly made every new student think twice about using magic before being declared ready to do so. However, the truth is that they move it to an expendable conduit just strong enough to forgive minor mishaps likely to occur early on. The teachers are strict but no sadists. How they manage to keep this fact a secret until after the initiation is a mystery to Mute, but then again the entire initiation rite is unknown to anyone who hasn’t undergone it themselves.

At a place like this, students could practice freely without mutilation looming over their heads. Still, there’s always a next war and more territory to liberate, so it’s unlikely it won’t be used to empower their King even more until most of the energy is used up. If only there was a way to predict the occurrence of conduits. If only there was some pattern to it. If only they knew why magic randomly generates in the places it does.

Mute abruptly sits up in bed.

His drifting mind has latched on to something, a detail of which he’s not sure anymore – because if he remembers it correctly, the consequences would be monumental. He automatically doubts himself and searches for other evidence supporting his hare-brained idea, and when he finds it, he jumps up.

In his excitement, he nearly forgets to dress before he rushes down the stairs to the taproom where he collides full force with Maestro. The bard seems just as relieved to see him as the innkeeper, and Mute has never had less inclination to speak to a bard than at this very moment.

“Dearest puppy, I was so worried -”, the muscular man starts, and Mute interrupts him immediately: “No time. Stay here, I might need you later. Bye!” And with that, he rushes outside, ignoring his rumbling stomach.

Horcerer must’ve sensed his impatience as she’s huffing in frustration before she can even see him. “You know where to go, babygirl”, he says and barely has enough time to swing himself into the saddle before she gallops straight for the mountain pass. “If I’m wrong, I’m currently making a fool of myself”, he informs her and earns a disbelieving snort. “You know I’ve been wrong before. I’m wrong all the time, for example when I thought this mission would not be the most important one of my entire life. Dumbass. Please don’t hurt yourself on the inclines, alright?”

While strange, he has to admit it’s addicting to be able to talk at his mount, knowing she understands his every word. He offers to climb the steepest parts himself and gets ignored entirely, so he just does his best not to fall off. He should’ve noticed before that Horcerer is much more resilient than normal horses.

Once they’re on the other side, he lets her carry him across half the burnt strip of land before he stops her and climbs down. “Thank you. Go drink something – depending on whether I’m right, I might be a while or a second.”

The cabyll-ushtey nuzzles him in an encouraging way, as if to say _good luck_ , and trots away in the direction of the nearest stream. And Mute, bright expression filled to the brim with anticipation and excitement, turns to the approaching beast soaring through the sky towards him. He’s never been this glad to see a dragon.

Making no move to stop, Smoke dives down and transforms in mid-air, finishing right before he crashes into Mute’s outstretched arms and slams them both to the ground. Getting all the air knocked out of his lungs is certainly beat by being covered in kisses by an overly affectionate shapeshifter, and once Mute can breathe again, he lets out a thrilled laugh. “Miss me?”

Smoke’s answer is a dizzying kiss leaving them both panting. “You’ve found a solution”, he deduces correctly.

“Maybe. I have to see whether -”

“That’s good enough for me”, Smoke decides and snogs him again while shoving his hands under Mute’s top.

“Wait, wait, I’m not sure if -”

Insistent lips are sucking on his neck now and it’s getting harder to keep his thoughts in order by the second. “We’ve done enough waiting, babe, tell me while I take your clothes off.”

“That’s -” Mute moans at a tongue swiping over his throat and makes a valiant effort to push Smoke off of him. “I – I can’t concentrate like this -”

“Mark, when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to remember your _name_ ”, Smoke growls and oh. Oh, that’s…

When Mute’s mum once asked him whether his brain had any way of switching off, she surely didn’t have something like this in mind. Mute’s eyelids flutter helplessly and the whine he hears turns out to be his own, a reaction to Smoke brushing over one of his nipples, and he’s _this_ close to giving in. To just lying back and letting Smoke do whatever he wants with him.

“I’ve never wanted anyone as much as you”, the dragon continues taking him apart with his words and slides down his body just like he slides Mute’s top higher, “if I can’t have you right now, I’m going to go insane.”

“Silence”, Mute whispers and feels a little guilty doing so, even though it finally causes Smoke to pause and throw him a disapproving look. “Sorry, you just – I had to stop you. If we don’t test my theory, I won’t have any peace of mind and I…” _I want to focus only on you_ , he can’t bring himself to say. “In any case, if you don’t stop, I’ll burn your underwear. Are you ready to listen?”

Smoke nods, so Mute cancels the spell, not at all prepared for his next words: “Not wearing any, so don’t try. Do you need me for this?”

Cursing under his breath, Mute disentangles them and gets back up, rubs his forehead to concentrate on the task at hand. “Yes, and you specifically, because I need to ride you.” Smoke’s brows shoot up. “No! Don’t even bloody think about it. Your dragon form. I hate to say this, but you need to fly with me.” The prospect is daunting even without factoring in the last time Mute took to the skies and ended up impaled and bleeding out. He really hates heights.

“Oh. We can do that. Please don’t stab my foot this time though.” Smoke steps a few feet away and shifts back into his dragon form. Having seen it with his own eyes now, Mute begins to understand why Smoke has such a hard time explaining magic logically – the transformation is so fluid and organic, Mute wouldn’t know how to describe it to anyone who hasn’t witnessed it either. Their use of magic is wildly different and if Mute turns out to be right, he has high hopes for the future to bring these two paths closer together.

“We don’t need to fly far”, Mute assures the waiting creature and marvels at how quickly the sight of dragon has turned from paralysing to comforting. Even though what he’s about to do is closer to the former. With the help of Smoke’s tail, he clambers up his side, using his wing as a stepping stone, and sits down on his shoulders, between his neck and the protruding wings. “Well this feels safe”, he mutters to himself and already feels dread rising in him when Smoke simply stands up normally. The scales catch on his clothing and provide a little bit of resistance, but overall it’s pretty much his worst nightmare. Great.

“Fly high up so you can catch me when I inevitably fall”, he jokes and wants to add that no, please _don’t_ do that, but all that escapes him is a yelp when powerful wings begin beating. He already hates what’s going on. Between his legs, Smoke’s body moves more than he anticipated and for a terrifying second he thinks he’s already sliding off, but once they’re past the initial ascent, the dragon switches from gaining height to simply gliding, allowing for a more relaxed journey.

Well. Considering.

“I hate this”, Mute singsongs and forces himself to stop hugging Smoke’s neck like he wants to crush it, “this is the worst. We’re never doing this again.” He doesn’t even spare a glance to the countryside flitting by further down, though it does look beautiful out of the corners of his eyes. But he’s _not_ looking down. Definitely not.

It’s time. He takes a deep breath to gather himself and starts drawing. The lines come to him so naturally he has no doubt he could recreate them in his dreams, and not once does he waver despite the earth below him looking like a drawing, despite the fear of failure sitting deep in his bones, despite knowing that if it doesn’t work, he’s back to the beginning. He’d have learnt nothing. “Silence”, he says.

Nothing happens.

Well, nothing was supposed to happen. “Breathe some fire for me, will you?”, he calls out to Smoke and watches him open his mouth to no avail. A wave of giddiness overcomes him. “Nod if you can hear me.” The head bobs up and down. The exhilaration increases. “Try again.” This time, he cancels the spell halfway through and witnesses a surge of flames shooting out of the dragon’s mouth.

He’s got it. _He fucking got it_.

“Yes!”, he yells triumphantly. “Hell yes! You can land again, I was right. Watch this!” And he tries desperately to remember how to cast the fireworks he reconstructed. The first few attempts fail, with no consequence at all, but just before Smoke’s feet touch the ground again, he manages to create at least one. It explodes in the air, producing colourful sparks and leaving behind wisps of smoke, but even without it, this would feel like a celebration.

Eager to share his revelation, Mute jumps off, oblivious to the fact that he’s about to fall a painful distance, but fortunately Smoke possesses the presence of mind to catch him with his talons and put him down gently. Undeterred, Mute starts babbling immediately: “This is amazing. I can’t believe no one else has made this connection. Do you even have any idea how bloody _huge_ this is?”

“You impress me every day, babe”, Smoke replies, takes his hand and starts dragging him towards the entrance of his home. Mute didn’t realise they flew here and even now it hardly registers.

“Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

“Not a clue. But I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“You don’t sound very interested.”

“Oh, I’m _extremely_ interested.”

The world tilts and suddenly, Mute is back on the very mattress which was the centre of his world for most of the past week, only now there’s a warm body on top of his and it’s pretty much exactly what he imagined the previous night. With the exception that he just tested his epiphany and found it correct. “I’m serious, this is -” He’s silenced by a wet mouth on his and startled into reciprocating when a questing tongue pushes inside. The feeling is odd, though not unwelcome, and quickly morphs into intoxicating, impossible-to-stop territory. Figuring he can wait a few minutes longer, Mute relaxes into it and puts his arms around Smoke to finally fully enjoy an embrace with no imminent threat.

Indulging in each other, they press the lengths of their bodies together and kiss for what feels like a deserved eternity. Smoke is everything he ever wanted and now that he has him, he’s not letting go; instead Mute pets his luscious hair and marvels at how soft it is, lets him suck on his tongue, lets him lick over his lips, lets him push one of his legs between Mute’s. Alright, he’s mostly allowing Smoke to indulge in him to his heart’s content, but that’s because Mute has absolutely no clue what he’s doing. He’s unsure of how to proceed, what to say, where to touch, and so he sticks with what feels safe for now. Like Smoke’s hair. And his shoulders probably.

Meanwhile, he’s doing his best to ignore the thigh between his own because as much as he wants to hump it like a dog in heat, he’s not sure whether it’s an invitation or meant to tease – if it’s the latter, it’s working beautifully as Mute begins losing his bloody mind holding himself back after a hot minute. He wants, he _needs_ , even if he doesn’t know what or how.

After his entire mouth is raw and swollen, Smoke breaks off and regards him with so much fondness Mute forgets how to breathe. “I could do this for hours”, he whispers and oh, that’s right.

“We don’t have hours”, he reminds Smoke. “Actually, we should -”

“You’re right. We should get a move on”, Smoke cuts him off, sits up and tosses his shirt aside.

“That is not what I meant”, he insists weakly, panicked gaze dropping to where the dragon is beginning to open his own trousers, and Mute would be able to see _everything_ because he’s not forgotten the earlier comment and he’s not certain he’s ready for this yet. Or rather: he’s committed to going through with it, just like he was with the flying, but it’s doubtful whether he’s mentally equipped to deal with it. “Wait.”

Smoke waits.

“I – I want to touch you.” Saying it out loud fills his cheeks with blood yet again, but he earns permission instead of mockery. The dragon perched on him holds still as Mute reaches out to brush over the flat belly, the broad chest, the pronounced shoulders. He’s radiating heat but keeps his fire under control, merely watches Mute’s expression with an affectionate smile and waits. He’s an odd kind of beautiful, not ethereal but easy to look at, and Mute really could get used to this.

“Rub my nipples if you want to see my cock jump”, Smoke says.

Mute freezes. Did he just -

Lifting his gaze to see if Smoke is serious is _not_ an option, but neither is following up on his suggestion. Staring intently at something innocent, like a rib, he wraps his hands around Smoke’s sides and rests them for a moment. A quick glance down and good heavens, yes, it’s _indeed_ visible through the fabric and very prominent and very excited, similar to Mute’s own, and he… he kinda…

Biting his lip, he slides a hand higher, waiting to be stopped. He dares looking up and is met with a mix of flaring desire and amusement, which is equal parts encouraging and embarrassing, so to mask the fact that his flush is deepening, he goes for it. Gingerly, he circles one bud with a fingertip, then caresses it with a thumb, and when Smoke starts purring, he strokes over it softly. His reward is a quiet gasp he decides he likes a lot, so he mirrors his hand with his other one and can’t help but direct his gaze back down.

It turns out Smoke was not lying.

Mute is _crimson_ now because he did this, this was all him, and he can’t tear his eyes away nor stop fondling Smoke and when the next twitch comes, Mute’s own rock hard dick echoes it with one of its own and he’s literally never been this turned on in his entire life before. He’s also never been this freaked out.

“This is killing me”, he states, and something in his voice causes worry to creep into Smoke’s expression.

“Babe, we can wait.” He leans down and presses a few calming kisses against Mute’s temple. “No rush. Tell me what you found out first.”

Oh, right. He almost forgot about that. “No. I mean, I want to, but I also want to do this. I really do.” Smoke is still sceptical. “Here, feel.” He drags the other man down onto his lap, presses their lower halves together as proof and did _not_ expect the sudden wave of arousal washing over him at the contact. A groan makes its way past his lips, and another as soon as Smoke increases the pressure, and Mute assumes this is his implicit permission to hump away after all.

It feels so incredibly good. Just the act of grinding up against Smoke, of him returning the favour, of causing friction between them leaves Mute utterly breathless. The sensation is divine and horribly addicting, but… it’s too much. At this level, the intensity of all of it overwhelms him, and though Mute fully trusts Smoke, he wants to hide from all the involuntary noises he makes. He doesn’t want to meet this attentive gaze which seems to look directly into his soul. He doesn’t want to feel this naked.

“Can we do what we did before?”, he pleads, fighting down the urge to shove Smoke off him and crawl under the mattress. “I’ll tell you and you… continue with this.”

His embarrassment rises proportionally to Smoke’s delight, though the patience and understanding he displays is something else. “Of course. You’re cutest when you talk about your passions.”

Mute thinks back to last week, to all the times he chewed Smoke’s ear off about his new discoveries. Thinks back to Smoke’s ever-present smile with which he listened, and the fact that he sometimes seemed to not listen at all. “So you’ve… also wanted to kiss me for a while?”

“Babe, ever since you cast that first Detect I’ve wanted to fuck you into next week.”

His sincerity makes it significantly worse. Mute is grateful he at least doesn’t have to look him in the eye as Smoke starts nibbling on his collarbone and wonders whether he’ll ever have a normal-coloured face again. He better start talking if he wants to survive this, though finding his thread proves nigh impossible with Smoke lavishing kisses and caresses on him while slowly taking off his clothing. “Remember… the basic rules?”, he breathes and allows the other man to rid him of his top.

Smoke makes a non-committal noise while licking his way down Mute’s chest.

“Of – of magic. Of human magic.” His next inhale is stuttery, owing to a warm tongue swirling through his navel. It’s bearable like this, only _just_ , but adding to his misplaced discomfort is his roaring need growing ever more insistent with each of Smoke’s gestures. Mute is hard, painfully so, longing for anything it can get. “Of humans using magic”, he corrects himself finally. His mind is clouding over fast.

“Sure”, Smoke mutters right before his mouth latches onto one of Mute’s nipples. And boy, Mute was not aware it’d feel this bloody good. He slaps a hand over his lips after producing a high-pitched, desperate sound and swallows down the others threatening to escape him while his hips lift uselessly – Smoke is perched between his legs now, not on top anymore, and the empty air provides no friction for Mute’s seeking hips.

“The ground”, Mute gasps out and _whines_. Smoke is doing kitten licks and every single one has Mute’s abdominal muscles twitching. “We need to – we need some kind of – _oh_.” There’s a hand in his crotch, a hand pressing down, a hand touching him where no one has touched him ever before, certainly not like this. “We need a connection”, he says between clenched teeth, trying not to sound utterly helpless and failing.

“We sure do”, Smoke agrees and grinds the heel of his palm against Mute’s poor cock, sparking impossible pleasure exploding outwards and prompting a response he probably didn’t expect: Mute puts his own hand over Smoke’s, holds it in place and pushes himself against it. He’s closed his eyes now to avoid Smoke’s merciless, loving gaze, and it helps.

“Fuck”, he rasps and tilts his head aside to let Smoke suck on his neck again like a vampire, and even this is utterly unbearable. None of it is enough for Mute to come, but all of it is enough to drive him insane. “Stand on it, _ah_ , we need to – we have to be standing. On the ground.”

“You’re so beautiful”, Smoke whispers in his ear and he _moans_. “So pretty. I want to look at you all day, babe. I can’t get enough. Let me see all of you.”

Respite. Smoke’s hand disappears and so does his filthy mouth, and it’s only now that Mute realises how tense he is, how wholly worked up. Relaxing is a conscious effort and he makes use of the brief pause to catch his breath. Vaguely aware of fabric rustling and brushing over his skin, he pays more attention to what he wanted to express in maybe not so many words in order to combat his flight instinct.

“To channel the magical energy in the earth, we need to be constantly connected”, he says tiredly, “jumping cancels all our spells, for example. Or when you threw me around with your tail. We can’t cast while falling either.”

And then he makes a tactical mistake. Irritated by Smoke’s lack of response, he opens his eyes to find himself naked and Smoke… admiring him. There’s no other word for how hungry and appreciative he seems, gaze wandering up and down, palms doing the same, and his eyes keep returning to Mute’s dripping erection.

“Babe, you’re sopping wet”, he says, sounding entranced, and Mute puts an arm over his face to hide it. “And you’re fucking _big_.”

“Stop talking”, Mute begs and shivers when a hand takes a hold of his shaft. Oh yes, this is what he wanted, the gentle pressure all around, the languorous slide eased by all his precum, every upstroke teasing him closer. He wants Smoke to just keep doing this till the end of time, bring him closer to the edge bit by bit by bit until he’s shaking – Mute has done it to himself several times, he knows what he’d be in for. It’d be scorching hot and _safe_ and he wouldn’t have to look at Smoke doing it, and maybe he can reciprocate afterwards.

“Make me.” A thumb swipes over his extremely sensitive head, making his toes curl.

This sounds suspiciously like a declaration of war. Like Smoke will keep it up until Mute manages to cast a Silence, and if that’s really his intention, he’s naive. It’s Mute’s comfort. He can cast it in his sleep.

“I considered fucking you, but you’d probably cry from overstimulation – and after seeing your cock, I need to feel you inside.”

Ruthless. Mute still isn’t fully sure of what Smoke means, yet he can tell it’s pure filth and therefore achieves its intended effect. Ignoring the way his dick gives an intrigued twitch at the words, he decides to take Smoke up on the challenge. Not trusting himself to cast blindly, he lifts his arm and catches a last glimpse of a mischievous smirk right as Smoke’s lips close around his head.

It feels like lightning. It’s an unstoppable ocean tide, with waves coming and going but ultimately conquering the land, it’s being punched in the sternum, and Mute _keens_. Hands hold him down so he can’t thrust deeper into this unreal heat but his thighs spasm nonetheless and by all that is holy, the _sight_. Smoke is sucking on him and visibly loving it, savouring the taste and really putting his tongue to good use and the fucking _noises_ he makes, sloppy and self-satisfied, and Mute’s vision blurs. Something tightens inside him. The overwhelming pleasure takes on a different flavour, and he tries to stop it, tries to get himself under control, reaches out and grabs Smoke’s hair to yank him back, but -

He comes almost violently, shudders seizing his body as the familiar relief overtakes him. The rush of pleasure is much more intense than usual and where he’s normally able to keep quiet, now he moans and writhes and tenses up his entire body, barely noticing that his attempt to remove Smoke has resulted in the opposite – he’s holding him in place while ejaculating in his mouth because he can’t move his arm, and somewhere in the lustful haze he’s aware he should but really, really doesn’t care right now.

Once he’s done and the heavenly sensation of release has begun to subside, he flops back onto the bed, boneless, and finally understands why most of the world is so obsessed with this. Smoke is lapping him clean and causes his dick to jump with every second lick, but Mute is too blissful to worry about what’s happening to his crotch now. Too blissful, and too busy not letting the mortification set in.

“You’re still hard”, Smoke observes full of interest and gives him a few experimental tugs, making Mute groan quietly. He didn’t seem to mind swallowing all of Mute’s come, but he doesn’t allow his mind to dwell on this fact for a single second.

“I can keep going”, Mute murmurs, addressing the ceiling rather than the stupidly hot dragon between his legs who’s taken his cock into his mouth _again_. As if he was a tasty treat. It’s shameless and dirty and feels like velvet, and Mute corrects himself mentally: _this_ is what Smoke should do for all eternity. The inside of his mouth is smooth, his tongue providing unnecessary extra stimulation, and the suction is incapacitating Mute’s mental faculties.

Smoke looks delighted, in any case. For some reason, he’s taking off his trousers and Mute pictures himself doing exactly what Smoke is doing right now – and though the prospect of sucking dick itself seems a little dubious, imagining Smoke losing control like he did just now makes his hips twitch.

“It’ll take a while though”, he adds for fairness’ sake and tries to catch a glimpse of what Smoke looks like without clothes, which is difficult when his eyes keep unfocusing.

Pulling off his unflagging erection, Smoke shoots him a sweet smile and replies: “Good.” Then he moves up to straddle Mute, and Mute finally gets it.

He doesn’t believe what’s about to happen, but he understands – after hints and half-truths and hidden between the lines, he retroactively decodes a lot of the comments dropped by fellow students after dark, and he can’t comprehend that Smoke is willing to do this with him. Incredulous, he wants to object not because he doesn’t want to but because he can’t imagine this to feel good for Smoke, yet any protest comes too late: Smoke is already breaching himself with Mute’s cock (and now that he can see Smoke’s, he supposes he is larger, but doesn’t that make it worse?) and letting out a thoroughly elated moan.

A moan which Mute echoes a fraction of a second later, because holy _fuck_.

If he thought Smoke’s mouth was the epitome of stimulation, he’s effortlessly put in his place now. The slide in is endless and gets better with every inch – his shaft is being swallowed whole by Smoke’s slick, quivering entrance, enveloped in incredible heat and delicious tightness. His fingertips are twitching, his heels digging into the mattress, his cock throbbing viciously, and their heavy breathing and occasional gasps make up a tapestry of sound weirdly not embarrassing at all. Mute is aware he’s being awarded a gift, knows how intimate this act is and appreciates it accordingly, which is probably why he’s not uncomfortable right now – though the fact that Smoke is so caught up in his own pleasure he’s not paying Mute any attention helps significantly.

And alright, judging by his facial expression, not only does it not hurt, it also feels sinfully good. Smoke is chewing on his lip, eyebrows working as he buries Mute deeper inside himself, and when he bottoms out, Smoke lets out a satisfied sigh. All Mute can do is to grab his spread thighs and massage them in an effort to get him to do _something_ , anything to soothe this impossible itch between his legs. Now that he’s surrounded by silk, the demand for release is rising once more.

Fortunately for him, Smoke doesn’t leave him waiting and starts lifting his hips and dropping back down; unfortunately for him, the sensation is so magnificent that his brain simply shuts off.

“You feel amazing”, Smoke growls and all Mute manages to respond with is a strangled sound as he forcefully drags Smoke back down to push himself all the way in. “I can feel you stretching me, babe”, Smoke whispers and Mute replies with a whine while trying to grind up to reach deeper. “Your cock is so damn good”, Smoke purrs and Mute produces a non-verbal effort noise because he really, really wants to fuck Smoke properly and he’s not letting him. Instead, he’s sitting on Mute’s hips like a predator toying with his prey, wearing the most annoying shit-eating grin and visibly enjoying Mute’s struggles.

“How about you finish your thought”, he suggests sweetly, “without moving, and once you’re done, I’ll let you do whatever you what.”

Mute can feel his dick pulsing. “No”, he says, ignoring his cheeks warming up once more. His despair is turning him brave.

“Then I guess I won’t let you move.”

“I can paralyse you”, Mute hears himself counter and has no mental capacity left to be horrified, which is just as well since Smoke looks _very_ excited all of a sudden.

“You wouldn’t”, he shoots back and it sounds like a dare.

“Only because it takes too long.”

Smoke’s eyes light up and somehow, despite the large shaft impaling him, he manages to lean down and express his approval with a long, drawn-out kiss. Their tongues dance, hands caress, breaths mingle. It’s gratifying and peaceful and loving – and the calm before the storm. Because when they separate, Smoke grins at him and mutters: “Go for it then.”

He doesn’t have to say it twice.

Mute whirls them around, pushes Smoke into the mattress with his own body weight and trusts his instincts to do the right thing. Not knowing what feels good for Smoke makes it more difficult, but the moan he earns from his first deep thrust leads him to believe that what works for him will work for both. To improve the angle, he yanks Smoke’s legs further apart and sinks down onto him, covering his exposed throat in kisses while snapping his hips forward.

The stimulation is glorious, especially once Mute figures out he can withdraw almost all the way before slamming back in to maximise his pleasure; he can feel Smoke’s hole twitching around him as it accommodates his girth. It should probably scandalise him how unashamedly he uses Smoke’s body, yet the pay-off is too delicious to disregard, and Smoke sounds and looks like he’s having the time of his life anyway. His arms are wrapped around Mute, digging into his back and wandering down to squeeze his arse which is a whole other turn-on. Brazen fingers push into his flesh, massage it in time with his thrusts and waver whenever he does _something_ right, as indicated also by a particularly loud moan.

Witnessing Smoke come apart at the seams is satisfying in a way Mute didn’t expect. He’s the one doing this to him, he’s the one forcing out all these helpless noises, he’s the one reducing him to an incoherent mess – Smoke does enjoy this as much as he does, clearly, and the evidence soothes a worry Mute wasn’t aware he held. It certainly boosts his confidence and entices him to experiment, try out short, sharp thrusts, slow and long ones, and once he’s found out which of them yields the loudest reaction, he keeps it up.

Mute is utterly caught up in the heat of the moment now, in the heat of Smoke’s insides, and focuses on chasing his second orgasm. It’s unattainable and lurking around the corner simultaneously, an odd mix of being able to keep going forever and just needing a slight push to tumble over the edge.

And then Smoke starts cursing. It’s the good kind of cursing, interspersed with numerous moans and gasps and emphasised through frantic groping and squirming – he must be getting close, going by his rising level of despair. Mute simply continues his harsh movements and presses their bodies flush to feel the irregular breaths expanding the chest below his own, to experience Smoke’s cock straining upwards, seeking friction. With most of his coordination skills focused elsewhere, all he can do is bite gently at Smoke’s shoulder and lick over where his pulse is racing, but it seems to be doing the trick. Because the curses slowly morph into begging.

“Please let me come”, Smoke pleads, as if it was up to Mute to control this. “Please don’t stop”, as if Mute had any inclination to. “Please _right there_ ”, and Smoke is powerless, relinquished all control, surrendered himself. His legs are wrapped tightly around Mute as are his arms, and he appeals to Mute, bargains with him, bribes him with whines and threatens him with fingernails in his back and if anything is enough to rip another orgasm out of Mute’s body, this would be it.

Then, suddenly, Smoke clenches down on him almost painfully, his grip tightening as well and a full body shudder running through him. Mute feels hot liquid splash his belly and chest while Smoke growls and squirms below him, meeting his thrusts with half-hearted motions as he comes untouched, comes apart, comes around Mute and because of him.

It’s not just the little push he needed, it’s a proper shove – feeling Smoke shiver around him trumps everything he’s experienced so far, and so Mute follows him suit after just a few more thrusts. This climax is even better than his first one, rolls through him like a storm front ready to devastate; he curls up into Smoke as much as he can and pants against heated skin as he weathers it. His muscles _hurt_ from tensing up this hard but any discomfort is blotted out by the sheer relief flooding his system with every throb of his dick, with every spurt deep inside Smoke. He keeps moving throughout, milking every last drop and relishing the quiet mewls Smoke produces under him.

The sweetness of it lingers for a long time, much longer than usual, and Mute basks in it. His brain does him the favour of registering the lovely aspects of it first: the sensation of being embraced this tightly by someone so dear to him. Smoke’s breath slowly normalising as it tickles his ear. The satisfying exhaustion taking over. His lips brushing over reddened skin and eliciting a relieved chuckle. Warm palms stroking over his back. The knowledge of finally having done _it_ , the mysterious _it_ he feigned disinterest in because there was no one he could see himself trusting this much.

And then, realisation hits with the force of a dragon’s tail.

Good god. He just _had sex with Smoke_.

  


“Babe, I know what your face looks like”, the dragon tells him amusedly, though he makes no move to turn Mute around. He’s face down, the very same burning and buried in his hands for good measure, and wishes for the ground to swallow him so he won’t have to look Smoke in the eye ever again. “I even know what your face looks like when you’re coming.”

“That does _not_ improve anything”, Mute mumbles into his hands as well as the straw mattress. He ejaculated into Smoke’s mouth. _He ejaculated inside Smoke_. How could he think any of it was in any way, shape or form acceptable? The things he did, dear heavens, the things he _said_ -

“You’re fucking hot, and you really don’t need to hide. That was fantastic. I haven’t come that hard in several decades.”

Mute whimpers. _You just fucked a dragon_ , his mind provides helpfully, and his whimpering increases in volume.

“Is that your way of implying you never want to do this again?”

At this, his thoughts screech to a halt. It’s the logical assumption, no? If he’s overcome by regret afterwards, it’s only sensible to not repeat what they just did. To not sink into this delightful heat again. To not spend half an hour making out and teasing -

When his head whips up, outrage clearly visible on his face, he’s confronted with a smug grin. “Busted”, says Smoke. “We can just kiss for now, you don’t have to look at me then.”

Mute doesn’t understand how the dragon seems fine with the two of them still being naked, but he allows for a brief touch of lips on lips, and then a longer one, and eventually they’re somehow spooning, with Smoke definitely too short to be the big spoon. “How come you’re so warm?”, Mute mutters, eyes closed and determined to just enjoy the physical contact.

“It’s the fire inside me.” Yet another unsatisfying answer. He’s about to protest when Smoke inhales deeply before letting out a thunderous belch. A fireball rolls past Mute’s face, quite obviously courtesy of the uttered deer mating call. “See?”

“I can’t believe I just slept with you”, says Mute drily.

“Me neither”, Smoke replies cheerfully and nibbles at his ear. “What was your great epiphany, then?”

_Oh._ Mute really needs to stop forgetting about this. “You’re magic.”

“Thanks, babe. But I would like an answer to my question.”

He idly wonders whether it’s possible to divorce someone he’s never married. “No. That’s my conclusion. That’s what changes everything, didn’t you – were you even listening to me?”

“I had the choice between admiring you and concentrating on your honestly very disjointed explanation. So no. Not a word.”

“Remember the day I almost died? My Silence kept going even after you picked me up, even though it shouldn’t have, and only got interrupted when you dropped me -” One of Smoke’s hands is creeping suspiciously close to his crotch, so he swats it away. “- you know what, nevermind then. I’ll explain later. Right now, we need to get a move on. There’s someone in Akenfield we need to talk to before we head for the capital, but first I’ll ask Doc if he can have an eye on Horcerer while we’re away.” Mute gets up while listing their plan of action and already starts dressing himself while Smoke watches him with a dreamy smile.

“No need to ask him, he heard you.”

Mute pauses. “What? Was he – was he _listening_?”

An unconcerned shrug. “He’s always listening. That’s what he does. Listens and snitches to Cav, who then straightens everything out.”

His life flashes before his eyes as he tries to process the fact that a deity witnessed him losing his virginity. “I – I was going to talk to them, too, to make sure they’re on board, but now I don’t really want to.”

“That’s alright, they’ll be with you. Neither of them wants a drawn out fight with you guys.” Smoke notices his sceptical expression and adds: “Not even Cav. She’s disillusioned, not unreasonable. They’ll be glad you found another way. Whatever it is.”

“Alright, if you say so. In that case, I’d like to introduce you to the first non-wizard who’s ever hit on me.”


	6. Ironically, the one called Harry is the only non-magic user

Mute should’ve realised mentioning Maestro the way he did was a terrible idea, but in his mind he was already freaking out about the flight ahead, even if it was just from Smoke’s home to Akenfield and didn’t consider for a second Smoke could be the jealous type. The iron hold around his waist and the hostile glare directed at the jolly bard prove him wrong, however.

“Though the townsfolk were convinced you were eaten, dearie, deep down in my little heart I just _knew_ you would persevere, you’re simply a fighter. You remind me a lot of the Hero of Brunrick, you know, he was just as valiant and handsome as you are – not quite so cheeky, maybe. I met him while I was searching for Nessie herself, in the middle of a cold, forgiving winter amidst -”

“We need to show you something”, Mute interrupts him without any guilt and briefly struggles against Smoke’s half-embrace which got tighter with every single one of Maestro’s compliments. “Let me go, you idiot. Go outside and shift back when I give you the signal, I’ll make sure no one else sees you.”

Grumbling and with a last pointed look at Maestro as Smoke plants a kiss square on Mute’s mouth, the dragon trudges out of the inn onto the street, making sure he has enough space to do as he’s told.

“Who’s your friend?”, the bard asks, clearly unimpressed. “He seems the wrathful type, someone as smart as you could probably do so much better. I’ve seen him around the stables – are you sure that you, a valorous and soon-to-be famous Warlock, want to -”

“Hide”, Mute finishes the spell he was casting and, after checking for the light shimmer indicating to the caster that the illusion is working, he waves out of the window.

“You _must_ inform me of your adventures, sweetest rose, I can tell that you experienced an eventful week, quite the opposite of me – though there _was_ that nymph who tried… to…” And few things in life have ever been so satisfying as rendering a bard completely speechless. Eyes wide, mouth open, Maestro gapes at the majestic dragon suddenly appearing in the middle of Akenfield.

“His name is Smoke”, Mute explains without explaining at all. “I believe you introduced me to him, actually.”

Wordlessly, flabbergasted and ashen-faced, Maestro points at the unassuming man returning to the taproom as if he hadn’t just revealed himself to be an above house-height magical creature.

“I have a favour to ask of you”, Mute continues and sighs inwardly when Smoke does his best to fuse with his side while glaring daggers at the gobsmacked bard. “In a few days, a group of Royal Warlocks will arrive here, with orders from the King. Stall them. I don’t care how you do it, but ensure they do not cross the mountain range, they do not go looking for any dragons, and they do _not_ fight anyone. You’re resourceful, you can make it happen, correct?”

Maestro nods mutely, gaze still flitting over to Smoke occasionally.

“If a woman with reddish hair called Finka is among them, you can tell her the truth and she’ll help you. It shouldn’t take us longer than a few more days to return, so resort to desperate measures if necessary. Understood?”

Another nod. Colour is slowly returning to Maestro’s cheeks. “Yes, I will do you proud, apple pie. If circumstance requires it, I will seduce them all to keep them away from the mountains.”

Mute blinks at him and quickly decides to just move on from that comment. “Good. Thank you. I know I can count on you. And you know what you’re getting in return, right?”

This question makes Maestro snap out of it and return to his jovial self. “Oh yes. You’ll tell me how you put the _lay_ in dragon slayer, you cheeky fox.”

He manages to catch Smoke before he takes a step forward and flashes Maestro a wide smile. “That’s not the main focus, but yes. Trust me, it’ll be worth it – hearing this story from the source will make you even more famous than you already are.”

“That is impossible as I’m the most famous bard on the planet, but I look forward to hearing your lurid tale.”

Wrangling Smoke out of the inn is a challenge in itself, but once they’re outside, Mute is confronted with a much, much worse outlook. “Well”, he says, unable to hide his fatalistic tone of voice, “let’s fly to the capital.”

  


~*~

  


“Straight ahead”, Mute pants mid-jog and directs his attention back to the scroll in his hands. Multi-tasking has always been one of his strengths and he’s never been more appreciative of his ability than right now, racing through the royal palace while tracking a faint glimmer through several walls.

“You sure I’m not allowed to knock out any of them?”, Smoke wants to know, sounding disappointed. He’s linked an arm with one of Mute’s and occasionally yanks him out of the way of expensive-looking vases or the odd curious servant appearing in the corridors, wondering what all the yelling is about.

“They’re royal guards, of course not. Does ‘assume command’ sound too much like military? A bit left now.” Having arrived at the palace just five minutes ago, they were informed the King is about to go on a state visit by being translocated – meaning if they don’t catch him before the highest of the Royal Warlocks magics him away, they’re screwed. Insisting they needed to speak with the monarch did nothing to impress the guards outside and so they simply booked it. Mute, already busy formulating and writing down the orders he wants to deliver to the warlocks stationed at Akenfield, additionally cast a Detect to highlight his King, and now they’re navigating the labyrinthine halls while trying not to get arrested on the spot.

“Whoever built this madness should be beheaded”, Smoke complains and drags Mute around a corner. “Are you done?”

“Nearly. No one will be able to read this, but so be it. Uh, he should be through this wall here, but I don’t see a door.”

“Say no more.” Smoke lets go of him, raises a fist and punches a hole into the solid stone wall. “Come on.”

Mute wastes a precious second just _staring_ at the new entrance to what looks like an inner courtyard, mutters a quiet _holy shit_ and then follows the dragon outside. They spot the King and Thatcher, the most senior warlock, across the yard, gaping at them in disbelief. Not like Mute could blame them. “Harry! A word!”, he calls out and hurries over. The translocation circle is already drawn on the floor and it looks like Thatcher just got ready to cast, so they cut it close.

“Is that Thatcher’s real name?”, Smoke asks, following him with much less enthusiasm.

“No, it’s the King’s. No need for alarm, your majesty, I bring excellent news which can’t wait.”

“Did you just call our King ‘Harry’?”, Thatcher asks, aghast.

“First, could you tell your guards to stop trying to throw us in jail? At least for the moment.”

The King, visibly overwhelmed with the situation, motions to the men and women pouring out of the hole in the wall, causing them to stand at attention instead of hurling threats at the perceived intruders. “I’m sorry, who are you again? I remember your face, but not your name.”

“Oh, this is my favourite part”, Smoke chimes in cheerfully, just as Mute replies automatically: “Hi, I’m Mute and I’m a sorcerer, and not with me is my horse, Horcerer.”

Thatcher puts a hand over his eyes.

“Ah, yes. I recall”, says the monarch with an expression implying he recalls _all too well_. “Who is your companion?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute. For now, let me demonstrate something. You’re familiar with the spell Enhance, correct? You would recognise it when cast and you’re aware of the consequences of making mistakes while using magic?”

Still blinking and looking stunned, the King nods. “Yes, I am, but I don’t see -”

“Allow me.” Mute fights a smile when Smoke possessively puts an arm around his waist, and then proceeds to cast the worst Enhance of his entire life. It’s a thing of beauty how botched it ends up, most of it mirrored or upside down – and Thatcher’s pure panic is the best part.

“What are you doing, Mute, _no_!”, he barks, unable to interfere yet terrified of the result, and then Mute finishes the spell with a quiet _Enhance_ and grins proudly.

Nothing happens.

The King is _very_ pale now. “Did you – are you alright? What did you do?”

“I solved a lot of our problems. May I introduce my companion?” For effect, Mute waits until Smoke has taken several steps back and watches with glee as both men before him witness the transformation. Their gazes wander up proportionally to the way Smoke grows manifold in size, and their jaws fall open when he shoots out a fountain of flame into the sky. Horrified screams begin echoing in the courtyard, either coming from the guards or the servants observing the spectacle – Mute isn’t turning around to find out since he’s got two people in front of him to be smug to. “This is Smoke, the very dragon you sent me to either kill or drive away.”

“You brought a bloody dragon to the _bloody royal palace_?!”, Thatcher hisses and grabs him by the lapel. “Are you insane?”

“Oh”, says the King, very quietly.

“I brought a source of pure magic to the royal palace”, Mute corrects his superior calmly. “In the past week I have realised something: concentrated energy does not randomly pop up in our world, as previously believed. It’s generated by all magical creatures.” Behind him, wood splinters and large claws scratch over the cobblestones with an uncomfortable screech as more screaming pops up. This really isn’t enough space to house a fully-grown dragon.

Thatcher is following him, beginning to put two and two together, but the King seems too distracted by his worry over the structural integrity of his palace to understand the ramifications. “So when you touched him, you tapped into his energy. And because he’s so powerful, your spell didn’t backlash”, the warlock concludes slowly.

“Exactly. I tested it – I can fly on his back and still cast. My hypothesis is that the ground absorbs some of the energy that magics radiate and stores it for us to use. But if we kill or chase the very source of all that magic away, of course it’s used up at some point.”

“He’s not going to set my men on fire, is he?”, the King interjects anxiously when Smoke puffs out more scorching heat.

“We had it backwards, is what you’re saying. They don’t flock to existing conduits. They _create_ the conduits. That’s why we always encountered so many of them.” It’s satisfying to see how everything clicks into place in Thatcher’s mind. “This – this would change everything. If you’re correct, of course.”

“Oh, you can try it for yourself. Climb on and tell him to lift off”, Mute suggests with a friendly smile, ignoring a deafening _crash_ in the background. When the next fire lights and heats up the courtyard, he sends off a quick Silence. Just to be safe.

“This sounds to me like we’ll have a lot of grovelling before us.” And the King doesn’t seem too stoked about it. “If I understood you right, we depend on these creatures if we want to continue using magic.”

“We do”, Mute confirms and tries not to trip and fall when Smoke starts poking him in the back with his snout to get him to cancel the Silence. “And there is an excellent first step we can take immediately by deciding to use diplomacy to negotiate access to the forest near Akenfield to make use of its powerful conduit. I’ve got some orders here that would award me the role as mediator and override any orders my colleagues carry.”

“How are you qualified for this position?”, the monarch wants to know and cringes at whatever the dragon is doing behind Mute’s back now.

With a sigh, Mute turns and catches Smoke angrily shaking a royal guard in his fist who presumably tried to stab him. The poor guy seems near tears. “Put him down and shift back, Smoke. You got your point across.” When Smoke obeys immediately, Mute flashes his King another self-assured smile. “I have connections, your majesty. It’s in your best interest to appoint me for this job.”

Thatcher looks like he’s about to develop a severe headache, while the King is entering the last stage of grief: acceptance. “Yes. You appear to be correct. Mike, I’m cancelling the visit so we can discuss this matter further, I think it requires both our immediate attention. Show me what you’ve written, Mute.” He squints at the chicken scratch. “This is unreadable, I’ll have to rewrite it. Would you and your… friend like to reside at the palace in the meantime?” His words are accompanied with a wistful glance at the now largely ruined courtyard and Mute mentally commends him for his poise.

“To be honest, we’d rather leave as soon as possible to catch your envoys before they can complicate matters in Akenfield.”

The monarch frowns. “You’ll never get there in time, they left a while – wait, did you _fly_ here?”

“My wings are not made for walking”, Smoke butts in and Mute adds: “You might get a ton of scared citizens reporting a dragon sighting soon, yes.” The King’s lips narrow in disapproval. “It was either ‘cause a slight panic’ or ‘lose esteemed colleagues to a deity with a vengeance’. I believe I chose the better alternative.”

Thatcher is ageing visibly. “There is a deity as well?!”

“Uh… two, actually.”

“Wait here, I’ll be right back with legible orders. I have one condition though: please tell me everything that has led to this. I can’t wait to hear it.”

Mute breathes a sigh of relief and assures the King there’ll be someone more than qualified to recount his experiences soon. And while the King flees the scene of disaster, Thatcher hangs back for a moment longer, fixing Mute with a hard stare. “I’ve been part of the initiation rite for wizards for as long as I can remember, kid, and I can always tell when someone’s about to fuck it up. That one’s not ready, I say, and I’m rarely wrong. With you, it was the opposite. I looked at you and thought: we’re not ready for this kid to be unleashed on the world. And you know what? I was right again.” Mute is patiently waiting for the punchline and ends up surprised when he instead earns a pat on the back. “Good job. I mean it.”

His smile is bright and genuine. “Thank you, sir. I’m… sorry if I’ve disrespected you.”

“I probably deserved it”, Thatcher barks out a laugh and turns to follow their King. “But I’ll be damned if you won’t be the main reason I retire some day.”

“That went well”, Smoke summarises and looks around the devastated courtyard with something akin to pride. “Did you tell them you’re the only Blackrobe I’ll listen to because you have the cutest arse? If not, I will. They need to know.”

And with all the tension of several weeks draining instantly, with all the dread and uncertainty disappearing, with most loose ends tied up and a promising future in front of him, Mute just laughs. He never would’ve expected an outcome like this, though with how turbulent his life had been up to the point he got assigned this mission, he really should have.

“Oh, I completely forgot to mention your hoard”, it suddenly occurs to him – though the prospect of working through it alone and then presenting Thatcher with his findings afterwards is tempting. Keep the old man on his toes.

“Babe, you’re the only one I’m letting into my hoard”, Smoke purrs without missing a beat and alright, yes, maybe Mute prefers that option, if only it means he won’t have to endure company whenever the dragon drops lines like that one.

And maybe, just maybe because he wants to have him all to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me [on my Tumblr](https://kiruuuuu.tumblr.com/) and say hi 💕


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